Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry
by Tawa bids you good day
Summary: After Harry's capture by Death Eaters, Sirius and Remus never give up the hope that somewhere, he is still alive and whole. COMPLETE: The final chapter of the series comes to a close.
1. The Riddle House

IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is the third part of a three-part story. The other two parts, both completed, can be found on my profile. If this is your first visit to my _Lost_ trilogy, you may have to read the other two parts first: all the same, welcome, and I hope you enjoy it.

If you've already read part one and two, welcome back. It's great to see you again. Now, onwards!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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There was an old house on a hill in the village of Little Hangleton. They called it the Riddle house, even though the Riddle family had not lived their for many years, because of a mysterious murder that had taken place there about five decades before.

Frank Bryce was the man who kept the gardens in order at the old house. Not because they needed to be kept in order but because he had been the gardener there for over fifty years, and at his age there was not much room for adaptation.

One day, Frank saw a man coming through the garden to meet him. This was an unusual occurrence in itself, as no one lived in the old house and the owner only came to inspect it about once a year. But there _was_ something about this man that struck Frank as unusual. Perhaps it was the unnatural sheen of his silver-blonde hair, tied back from his face with a black ribbon. Perhaps it was the paleness of his skin, the cold and calculating look in his eye, or the undeniable sense of wealth that radiated off him. Perhaps it was the long black cloak he wore overtop of his crisp green suit. But Frank did not think him in the least bit _ordinary_, nor did he think he liked this man in the slightest.

The man, who introduced himself only as Malfoy, told Frank that the house was now under his ownership – he had purchased it the day before – but he would not be living in it, merely keeping it in reserve for future use. In the meantime, Frank would be allowed to keep his job as the gardener of the Old house.

"A caretaker will now be living in the house to keep it in good order," he said to Frank in a condescending voice. "And I am having a wall built around the estate to protect my privacy. Your cottage will be within these walls and I do not expect you to allow anyone in or out of them without the prior approval of the caretaker. Apart from that, nothing will change for you. You will continue the gardening just as you have always done, to keep up appearances, you see, and, as always, you will receive your pay once a week, from the caretaker."

And then, with a faint sneer that might have been intended as a smile, the man turned on his heels and left. Frank leaned on his spade for a few minutes to ponder this new adjustment, then he went back to his digging. He made an effort that week to encourage the roses blooming along the front path, but, as the man had promised, nothing seemed to have changed at all.

Indeed, the only disruption was that in the early hours of every morning, a number of dull-looking men came to the estate and then disappeared by the evening. They were labouring to build the wall that would encircle the Riddle house and the gardens, but they never spoke to Frank, and he did not invite their conversation while he tended to the hedges nearby. In less than a month, the wall was built, a long stone barrier that snaked across the horizon, making Frank feel strangely claustrophobic because it blocked his view of the village. But there was no one to complain to and he did not fancy complaining anyway, so he tried to ignore the wall.

As for the mysterious Mr Malfoy himself: Once the wall was complete, Frank never saw him again.

The caretaker that Frank had been told about appeared in due time. Frank never saw him arrive – he was simply there one day, just after the wall had been finished, as if he had always lived in the old house. He was a small, balding man with a pointed nose and of all the changes that had taken place, Frank liked this one the least. The caretaker's name was Mr Pettigrew and he rarely left the Riddle house, for which Frank was very glad, because Pettigrew made Frank very uncomfortable. Petttigrew kept all the curtains in the house shut tight, and peered out between them, watching the old man limping across the lawn, carrying his gardening bag under his arm.

A month went by, and Frank got used to the wall around the Riddle house and the prying caretaker. In the village of Little Hangleton, talk was abound about the Riddle house's new owner, and Frank was invited for drinks for the first time in nearly fifty years in the hope that he could provide details about the absent Mr Malfoy. Frank, however, told them nothing, and the villagers eventually got bored and stopped pestering him.

Two months went by, and then three, and it was in the fourth month since Mr Malfoy had purchased the Riddle house that Frank looked up from tending to his roses and saw the boy.

It was a cold, clear afternoon, and though there was no breeze, a crisp chill was making Frank's old bones ache. It was on the cusp of autumn and the long winter ahead, and Frank was pruning the dead hips of his roses, which would not bloom until spring came again, and he paused for a moment to give his strained back a rest. As he did so, he happened to glance up at the Riddle house.

There was a tall window in the top story of the Riddle house, which was where Mrs Riddle had had her bedroom all those years ago when the Riddles had still lived there. Frank had not seen the curtains of this window opened since Mr Pettigrew the caretaker had moved into the house. But this day, they were pulled right back, and a boy was standing in the window, looking down at Frank.

Frank stared at the boy. He could make out very little from this distance: just a white oval of a face beneath an untidy black fringe, and a pair of wide, round spectacles. Behind the boy, the room was dark, so that he seemed to be hanging in space, watching Frank with expressionless concentration.

Frank realised that the rose he was trying to stake up was in danger of falling over again, and quickly bent to straighten it. When he looked up at the window again, the curtains were drawn and the boy was gone.

The whole incident had lasted less than thirty seconds. Frank scratched his grizzled chin and began to nip the dead hips off the rose, wondering why he felt so uneasy, and why the word 'ghost' had floated unbidden into his mind and hung there, heavy and troublesome.

He did not ask Mr Pettigrew about the boy. For starters, Frank did not enjoy talking to the caretaker about anything if he could help it. Also, Frank did not like children in any shape or form, and he hoped that if he forgot about the stranger, he would not see the child again. And besides that, he did not want to think about the possibility that the boy at the window was nothing but his imagination. That was rather a horrifying possibility to Frank: that age and senility was finally catching up on him. So he kept the experience to himself and tried to forget about it, but the pale face behind the glass occupied his thoughts more often than he would have liked.

But Frank saw the boy again several times over the next month. Always in the top windows of the house, always simply standing and looking down over the gardens. Each time, Frank felt his knees shake a little, but each time, he found the boy a little less frightening. At last, about six weeks after he had had his first glimpse of the boy, he plucked up the courage to raise his hand at the boy and wave. And, after a moment, the boy raised his own had in reply.

This settled it for Frank. The boy was real, not a hallucination or anything else of the like. Yet Frank had never seen him leave or enter the house, and a small beat of curiosity began to keep time in Frank's chest. It convinced him to suppress his dislike of Mr Pettigrew and ask the caretaker about the identity of this mysterious child.

He approached Pettigrew the next time the caretaker came wandering out into the garden, and breached the topic as casually as he could. All the same, the effect was immediate and alarming. Mr Pettigrew shuddered as if Frank had said something particularly distasteful: his eyes grew wide, and he began to wring his hands and pluck at the air around his face as if fiddling with invisible whiskers.

"There isn't any boy, I don't know what you mean," he said in a nervous and singularly unconvincing squeak. "Perhaps you've been, er, imagining, Mr Bryce. Certainly, there is no boy living in the house."

When Frank insisted that he had seen the child several times now and he was quite sure he was real, Mr Pettigrew became even more nervous.

"My nephew," he blustered, "sometimes comes to visit. That's the boy you must have seen. Shy child, you know – doesn't come out of the house – " and with that, he made some excuse about having something in the oven and positively fled before Frank could question him any further.

Frank disliked being lied to. It made him rather angry, that he, who had tended its gardens dutifully for over fifty years now, should now be shut out of the secrets of the old Riddle House. He decided he would ask the caretaker no more questions, but he was patient. Sooner or later, he was sure, something new would be revealed to him, and then he would decide what to do about Mr Pettigrew and his lies.

Winter came heavy and brutal, leaving the trees of the Riddle estate as thin skeletons and the beautifully kept lawns frozen and choked with mud. Christmas passed unnoticed by Frank, who had no one to celebrate it with, and January arrived with all its bitter cold. Snow smothered his roses and forced Frank to retire into his cottage for days at a time. Through the window, he watched Mr Pettigrew struggle through the snow, swearing and sneezing, to go down to the village and buy groceries. He always bought a lot of groceries – he seemed to eat enough for a man twice his size.

At last, the snow melted, and Frank began to potter about in his empty flower beds, turning over the frozen earth and doing his best to cover up the plants against the frost. One morning, he came out of his cottage, a ragged old scarf wrapped tight around his face and a thick coat shrugged over his shoulders, and found that his good spade was missing. He had left it leaning against the outside of the shed door the evening before, he was certain of it: and now it was gone!

Muttering curses to himself, Frank stomped across the muddy lawn, wondering why on earth someone would have the audacity to climb the wall of the Riddle estate just to steal an old man's spade. However, it seemed the spade had gone wandering about of its own accord, because just then Frank saw it lying across a freshly-turned empty flower bed, as innocent as you please. Grumbling, he went over and picked it up.

And as he bent and took a hold of the handle, he stopped and stared. The rich earth of the flower bed had been disturbed. Deep grooves had been furrowed into the soil, and the grooves formed two words, plain and clear as day:

HELP ME

Frank stared at the words, long and hard, for several minutes. He found his hands were clutching the handle of the spade so hard that his knuckles were white. He relaxed his grip, straightened up, looked at the words one last time. Then he took the spade and smoothed them over so that not a trace of them remained.

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TBC

A/N: Thanks for everybody's patience since the end of Part Two. My exams went okay, although not as perfectly as I could have hoped, but I have serious doubts about my country's education system anyway so it can't be helped.

I've posted chapter one because I hate leaving everyone in suspense, but I know it has revealed very little and probably left you just as annoyed as you were before. Chapter two has been sent for beta-reading (thanks, Liz!) so I don't know when it will be back. I will probably post Chapter two in a few days no matter what, and in the meantime, you can all cheer me up by sending lots of lovely reviews complaining about how late part three is. Because I'm an unscrupulous character and I do enjoy them.

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Next chapter: Lupin and Sirius come to terms with the loss of Harry from their lives.


	2. Aftermath

A/N: Eeek, early update, quick-smart, must go now…

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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The bright and enduring Sirius whom he had known seemed to have vanished as surely as if he had never existed. Lupin feared that his friend would lock himself away, sink down into despair, and never come back again. Since this was exactly what he himself wished to do, he did not think he was going to be much help in keeping Sirius alive and happy, and dragging him out of mourning – in fact, the only thing that kept Lupin from despair was the thought that Sirius needed him. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of self-pity.

Dumbledore had given Lupin a few weeks leave from his teaching post so that he could help Sirius settle in to the Wizarding world once more, and as neither of them could stand the thought of returning to Grimmauld Place, Lupin rented out the cottage in the countryside and took Sirius to live with him in a small flat in London. He braced himself for several lonely weeks while he tried to find Sirius a job and somewhere to live.

However, to his surprise and utter relief, he was not alone in his task of aiding Sirius' recovery. Friends who had heard that Sirius Black had returned after his long disappearance came from all over Britain to welcome him back. Not being a great socialiser himself, Lupin had never realised there were so many people who had missed Sirius over the years.

It turned out there were more than he could count. Several times in the first week, school friends such as Dedalus Diggle issued out of the fireplace, cheering and in Diggle's case, carrying a keg of butterbeer. Members of the Order of the Phoenix arrived on the doorstep at every hour of the day or night, to shake Sirius's hand and ask when he would be returning to the Order. Letters arrived bearing gifts from Ministry employees who had worked beside Sirius when he had been an Auror. A great number of old girlfriends whom Lupin had never met, but who greeted Sirius with a kiss or a hug, arrived by broomstick or muggle cars. Andromeda Tonks burst into Lupin's house, seized her cousin and embraced him, sobbing that he need only call her if he needed anything at all. Tonks also came once, to talk to Sirius, but she did not stay long, and avoided Lupin's eye. From Romania, Charlie Weasley sent a slightly scorched letter of remorse. Charlie's parents, Molly and Arthur, came to express their condolences and invited Lupin and Sirius to visit whenever they liked. Molly looked very pale a shaken: their son Ron had been one of those taken hostage by the Death Eaters, and Ron had told them everything about Harry and what had happened. There were others as well – Amos Diggory, Rubeus Hagrid, Mundungus Fletcher – and as each of them arrived, Sirius' mood perked up just a little, but just enough to give Lupin hope.

But no one was more help to him in keeping Sirius from sinking into depression than Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hestia Jones, who were in and out of Lupin's flat every day. They had both been close friends with Sirius when he had been as their fellow Auror, and now had rather a lot of time on their hands because neither of them was working as Aurors any more.

Minister Moody had put Kingsley on probation for two months for his role in the bungled arrest of the Death Eaters, and demoted him from the third-highest ranking Auror in the Ministry. Lupin was outraged when he heard this, as Kingsley had done nothing more than tell Minerva McGonagall that Sirius Black was in the castle, something that Moody seemed to consider near-unforgivable treason. But Kingsley waved off Lupin's verbal abuse of the Minister, saying, "It won't last. Alastor will miss my company before too long." He was right – within a month, a very grudging owl arrived from Emmeline Vance asking Kingsley to come in to help with some work, and though it did not officially pardon him, it was obvious his probation was finished.

Hestia Jones, however, was punished rather more severely for her part in the whole matter. There was no question of her remaining an Auror: she had disobeyed direct orders from the Minister of Magic, and utterly ruined a mission that would have apprehended a great number of the Ministry's most wanted Death Eaters. Her actions had indirectly handed two sources of immortality to the Dark Lord. She was in total disgrace.

While she was still recovering in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, a letter arrived informing Hestia that she had been relieved of her post as a Ministry Auror, and her position within the Ministry was terminated immediately. However, the letter did not arrive before Hestia had already sent in her resignation addressed to the Minister personally, in the form of a howler, which burst into flames on his desk and called him a lot of rude names before someone managed to cast a freezing charm to silence it.

Hestia told Sirius this story very proudly while they were still in the Hospital wing together, but Lupin later heard her confiding in Tonks that she had only resigned because she knew she was going to be fired. She was near tears as she told Tonks. "What am I going to do? I've been an Auror since I left school, I don't know how to do anything else!"

Tonks was likewise in disgrace, but someone among the Aurors must have felt that she deserved forgiveness, because she returned to her Auror training with nothing more than a lecture from Emmeline Vance and four weeks of difficult chores to complete around Auror headquarters on top of her study for her second-year trainee exams. These exams were a source of great anxiety to Tonks, but luckily for her, she now had a trio of experienced tutors to help her practise: Kingsley had plenty of free time, and Hestia and Sirius were both determined that even if they could not return to work as Aurors, they would at least have the chance to pass on their knowledge and skills to Tonks.

Weeks passed. Kingsley and Lupin went back to work, Hestia got a job cleaning cages in Eyelops' Owl Emporium, and Sirius ended up with a secretarial position in Gringotts, running errands and typing up accounting reports for Goblins. He kept living in the little London flat, though he refused to let Lupin pay for his rent any longer. The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher sent him daily letters from Hogwarts, and Kingsley and Hestia visited him every chance they got.

And between the three of them – Hestia, Kingsley and Lupin, with a little help on the side from Tonks, who was still avoiding Lupin's presence – they managed to keep Sirius from falling into gloom and despair. As the weeks turned into months, Sirius began to smile again, and tease them again, and the weight that had seemed to be crushing him lifted and was gone. And sometimes – not often, but sometimes – Sirius would even talk about Harry.

Those were rare moments, but Lupin knew that conversely, while Sirius hardly ever spoke his Godson's name aloud, Harry was all that occupied his thoughts. Both of them had made an unspoken oath that they were never rest until Harry was safe again – and yet saying and doing were two things that were very difficult to unite. When Sirius was not at work or asleep he was in every corner of Britain, hunting down every witch or wizard who might be even vaguely aware of where Death Eaters might take a kidnapped prisoner. Several times, Lupin had to step in to keep Sirius from getting violent in his desperation – but people were more afraid of the Death Eaters than they were of a shaggy wizard with a bad temper. If anyone knew anything about a lost boy named Harry, they weren't telling.

Dumbledore, too, lent his weight to the search. Lupin knew that he was not only searching for Harry, but for all of the Horcruxes of the Dark Lord, and it disturbed him a little that in Dumbledore's mind, Harry might be placed in that latter category. All the same, the Headmaster had sworn he would never allow the boy to come to harm, and Lupin had to trust his word. If Dumbledore found Harry and brought him home, Lupin knew he would never again doubt the Headmaster in any way.

But the weeks kept passing, and still there was nothing, no word, no clue –

It was as if the boy called Harry Potter had never existed.

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Hermione and Ron stayed in the Hospital wing for only a couple of days before Madame Pomphrey declared them perfectly fit and McGonagall asked them to return to classes. Neither of them wanted to stay cooped up in the Hospital wing anyway, but they had remained there in the hopes of talking to Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, whom they had only glimpsed briefly before a rather pushy woman who claimed to be an Auror had shut the curtains around his bed. This woman, who said her name was Hestia Jones, was like a broody hen, and she chased Hermione and Ron away several times before Sirius left the hospital wing one night and they lost the chance to talk to him.

The two young students returned to their classes, but even Hermione seemed to have come away from the whole incident with her charisma for lessons dulled. They avoided each other whenever they could, even in the common room. Ron hung around with Dean and Seamus and tried to cover his preoccupied thoughts by being as boisterous and loud as possible at all times. Hermione sat by herself, hidden behind her books, alone because her only friend, Neville, had not come back from the Hospital wing. This was a mystery in itself as Neville had not been injured in Gryffindor tower or taken hostage by the Death Eaters: he had, in fact, been in the library during the entire affair, but apparently he had gotten ill in some one (epilepsy, McGonagall told Miss Granger sternly when she asked), and was not well enough to attend class yet.

One afternoon about a week after the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts and then escaped it, Hermione unintentionally found herself standing opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, and almost against her will, she walked past it three times. The door to the Room of Requirement appeared, and she went in.

It was just as it had been when Harry had been living in it, the shelves of books, the tiny table where she had taught him charm-work, the three chairs where they had sat with Ron and eaten pastries stolen from dinner. The bed was still unmade from when Harry had last slept in it: and to her surprise, someone was sitting on it, staring unhappily at the floor.

Ron jumped to his feet and had pulled out his wand before he realised it was just Hermione standing in the doorway. Both of them had recovered their wands after they had been taken from them, as all of the confiscated wands had been left in the Great Hall after the Death Eaters had Disapparated.

"Oh," Ron said crossly, putting his wand back into his robes. "It's you."

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, shutting the door behind her.

"What are _you_ doing?"

She shook her head at him and looked away. Ron glared for a moment and then his aggression seemed to leave him and he sagged a little, his shoulders hunched forward. He bent and picked up a silvery bundle sitting on the bed, running the soft material through his hands. It was Harry's invisibility cloak.

"It doesn't belong to us. I sort of thought, maybe we could give it to Lupin," Ron said quietly, folding the cloak up as neatly as he could. "And he could give it to Harry's Godfather. That's who it should belong to now, I suppose."

"But Lupin's still away, Snape's taking his classes," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah, I _know_," Ron snapped at her. "Why do you always act like I'm stupid or something?"

"Why do you always act like I'm _trying_ to make you angry?" Hermione fumed, balling her fists. "Stop picking a fight and I'll stop fighting with you!"

For a moment, it looked as if a row was starting up: then they both closed their mouths and glanced at the floor. Hermione sniffed. "He would have told us not to bicker."

"Yeah, he would have," Ron sat down on the bed again, setting the cloak in his lap. His voice barely more than a whisper, he murmured. "Is it our fault? For keeping him a secret?"

This was what had been on both their minds since that awful day when the Death Eaters had broken into Hogwarts: this terrible, choking guilt that maybe, if they had told McGonagall about Harry from the beginning, then he would still be safe. That they had been foolish and selfish to want to keep Harry hidden, and it was because of their selfishness that they had lost him.

"I don't know," Hermione said, unable to meet his eye, feeling her throat close up. "I've – I've got to go…"

Blinking, determined not to cry, she fumbled for the door handle and stumbled out into the corridor, walking away as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. Ron did not follow her.

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Neville had still not returned to classes the next day, so Hermione went to visit him in the Hospital wing before their first lesson. She slipped into Transfiguration alone before anyone else got there, and sat down in an empty desk at the back of the classroom, pulling out her books without meeting anyone's eye as the rest of the class entered. Ron came in a few minutes later, and headed for the desk where Dean and Seamus were sitting. As he swung his bag onto the ground, he glanced at Hermione, who was bent over her book, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Hey," he called. Hermione looked up at the sound of his voice and looked at him, brief confusion flickering across her features. Ron indicated the empty seat next him. "Don't sit all by yourself."

"Oh, Ron, come on!" Seamus rolled his eyes. "If you want to be next to the know-it-all, go over _there_, don't make _us_ sit with her too."

Ron glowered at him for a moment. Then he bent and picked up his bag, and growled, "Fine, then. I will." With that, he strode off to the back of the class to sit beside Hermione.

Dean said something under his breath and Seamus laughed unkindly, but after a moment he stopped and looked away apologetically, knowing he'd gone a little too far. The chatter of the other students died away as Professor McGonagall entered and waved her hand to command silence. She began writing up the day's heading on the black board, calling for Lavender Brown to stop giggling and for everyone to take out their notebooks.

As she had never seen him before in her life, Hermione stared at Ron, who was taking great trouble to remove his battered textbook from his bag in order to avoid looking at her. Then she sat up a little straighter, took out her quill, and began to write.

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"We only knew him for two weeks," she said to Ron, while she helped correct his Charms homework that evening in the common room. "Does that count? As a friendship, I mean?"

"Only two weeks," Ron shrugged. "I don't care how long that was, I'm not going to just forget about him. Because we're going to see him again, I know we are. Even if we have to find him ourselves."

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TBC

A/N: First off, let me say, I LOVE YOU GUYS. I was practically singing all of yesterday because of everyone who took a moment to cheer for the arrival of Chapter one. Honestly, it doesn't matter what you said about it, the very fact that you would all let me know what you thought makes me so happy. If you can imagine that I was Lavender Brown crying "Won-Won!" and eating Ron's face – yeah, that's how squidgy-happy I felt yesterday.

So, thank you:

Uchethegirl, The Female Nerd, muggles, CrimsonReality, CannonFodder, Littlecrazy1, Namariqueen, tachc, padfootbadeinblack, Phyre's child13, Cruciatus88, foodisgood, hermione1208, illachi, IritIlan, RiverSogn DreamShadow, EsScaper, sephiroth's sword, maria, Erinne, Elle's Bells

And remember; ask me any questions at all. No question is a stupid question, and it's always possible (and often highly probable) that there's something I've missed which needs fixing in a hurry. Unfortunately, my beta is on hiatus for a time and I have great respect for any beta who can stand to take me on, so I am not going have the impudence and pester her. This means, however, that I am now relying on you to keep me in line.


	3. Curtains and Flames

A/N: Sorry this took a bit longer than usual. It _probably_ won't happen again.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Harry remembered the last moments most clearly. Even through the turmoil around him, as the Aurors Apparated around the Great Hall, as the Death Eaters panicked and fled, Lupin trying to drag him to safety, screams, shouts, spells in all directions – the last moments, he could still see in his mind.

Sirius' face, as his Godfather appeared, fighting to reach him. Lupin, struck down by something, and then an arm that clung like a claw had wrapped around Harry's shoulders. There was the briefest instant where Harry still thought Sirius would reach him in time, and he struggled, scratching at the Death Eater's face, waiting for his Godfather to curse the villain – and then the horrible sensation as if he was being sucked through a rubber tube, and it was all gone.

Those last moments he remembered perfectly. It was the next few weeks that were distant, blurred. He was tied hand and foot, gagged and blindfolded, lying in a room that was dark and cold. Every part of his body ached. Sometimes someone would come in and bring food, and hungry, he would eat it, but there were drugs or potions or something in the food, that made him stupid and knocked him out quickly. He would sleep and not know if he had slept for an hour, or a week. There was only the darkness of the room and the aches in his arms and legs. There was only the indistinguishable voices through the wall and the silhouettes of the people who came to feed him. There was nothing.

He would not have known how long this had gone on for, except that then, one night, he felt the familiar tingling on his face and down his back.

"Full moon," he whispered to himself – because there was no one else to talk to – and he strained against the ropes binding him. His bones stretched and twisted, but he welcomed the change, hurried it on, and at last, the ropes snapped.

When morning came, he found he was more awake than he had been since he had come to this place. He found his glasses discarded in the corner, miraculously unbroken, and tried to come to terms with the possibility that this was how he would live the rest of his life. _No – _he would not stay here. With the blindfold gone, he had reclaimed his sight: with the drugs purged, his senses: and he still had his alertness. He would find a way out. He had heard cars going past, which meant he was still in a muggle neighbourhood. If he could escape the house, then he could call the muggle police. He just had to get past the Death Eaters.

As a werewolf, he had ripped apart everything in the room, including a spindly chair he hadn't even realised was there. He found one of the legs of the chair, torn completely off, and a tile smashed from the boarded-up fireplace. With the broken edge of the tile he tried to sharpen the end of the wood to make a weapon of sorts, but the wood just splintered. Frustrated, wanting to do something that would leave a mark, he scratched his initials into the flat side. The two letters, HP, seemed to glow in the dim light, lending him strength.

He heard voices on the other side of the door. He readied himself to attack, to force his way past to the freedom that was only a few walls away.

But when the door opened and he tried to fight, it was futile. A single stunning spell subdued him, and when he awoke, it was far away, alone, and imprisoned beyond all hope of escape.

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The room he found himself in was lit by a charmed oil lamp they never went out. It had to be illuminated by magic, because the curtains pulled across the window could not be parted. Desperate for a taste of fresh sunlight, this was the first thing Harry tried to do when he awoke in the strange room; open the curtains. But no matter how he wrestled with them, tugged at their corners, even tried to unclasp them from the curtain rail, they were stuck to the window as firmly as the carpet to the floor.

The door was locked, of course. The room was devoid of anything that could be used as a weapon. The double bed was large and so ancient it seemed in danger of collapsing into dust when he touched it. Indeed, dust rose in a fine mist from the sheets when he threw himself down on it after his wrestle with the curtains, and the pillows smelled of mould and mildew.

There was a bathroom off to the side, with no door to separate it from the bedroom. Even the mirror had been taken down in the bathroom, presumably so that Harry could not smash it and use the shards to cause any damage. There was a large bath, with ancient silver taps, but the taps only ran cold water, and there was no soap, no cloths, and only one threadbare towel, plus a pile of spare socks and underwear. But there was, at least, a small metal cup for Harry to drink from and a new toothbrush, though no toothpaste.

The first time the door opened Harry nearly jumped out of his skin from fright. The man who came in was short and balding, and he hunched so that he looked even shorter. His pointed nose twitched when he spoke, and he wore a wizard's robes that were dirty and frayed. He looked very familiar, like someone Harry had known many years ago.

He brought Harry a tray of food and told him he was allowed anywhere in the top storey of the house, where his room was located, but that he was barred from going downstairs.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded.

The man shook his head and backed out of the room.

As soon as the man had gone, Harry wolfed down the food to ease the pangs of hunger in his stomach. The meal was nothing more than cold buttered toast, thick and chewy as a plank of wood, a bowl of canned tomato soup – lukewarm – and a steaming pile of cabbage that had been cooked so long most of the colour was gone from it. The food was not very appetising but Harry was so hungry he didn't notice. Once it was gone, he set off to explore his new domain.

The first thing he did, of course, when he found the stairwell was try to go down it. But as he raised his foot to lower it onto the topmost stair, there was a flash of purple light and he was shoved backwards by some invisible hand. He staggered, then caught his balance, glancing around in fright. There was nothing in sight. Cautiously, he stretched out his arm and touched the air above the topmost stair. Again, the flash of purple and some resistance met the tips of his fingers. It was as if there was a giant rubber seal completely surrounding the stairwell. Despite the discomfort of the blinding purple flashes, he tested the barrier all around to see if there were any gaps in it. But it extended from the ceiling to the floor, and right across the banister, from wall to wall on either side of the stairwell.

So, no escape that way.

The rest of the uppermost storey was unremarkable. Everything was lit by the tiny charmed oil lamps which rested on the floor every few feet, burning eternally without dimming in the slightest. There was, to his relief, a small study in which the walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with ancient, mouldering tomes. So at least he would not die of boredom. There were two more rooms, both completely bare and emptied of furniture, their floors thick with dust, that he assumed were spare bedrooms.

At the end of the corridor the hall opened out into what might, once, have been a sunroom. There was no sun here now. There were several large pots filled with dirt, but the plants in them had long since died and rotted to nothing. Like in his bedroom, heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, which could not be opened no matter how much he struggled with them.

He went back and tried all the curtains in all the rooms, with the same result. He wondered if they might be cut, but of course he did not have a knife or anything sharp at all. On the other hand, maybe they would burn. He tried to open one of the oil lamps but they did not seem to open. He was pleased to find a knob on the side of the lamp that turned it off and on by magic. At least he had that much control over his surroundings. He went and turned off all the lamps in all the rooms. The curtains might as well have been made of lead for all the light that they let into the house, but there was a faint light coming up the stairwell. He guessed that there were more lamps downstairs, but he could not reach them.

He took one of the oil lamps to light his way, and then shut himself into the study to think about what to do. He did not have a wand, or any weapons, or indeed any tools at all. He had to assume that the man who had brought him his meals was a Death Eater, which meant he was a wizard, which meant that Harry might be able to attack him and take his wand. But that would do him no good if he was still stuck in this house. Besides, there were probably more Death Eaters downstairs, and he could not fight them all.

However, Harry was certain of one thing. Sooner or later, Sirius would come to get him. There was not a flicker of doubt in his mind about this. His Godfather would not stop until he had reclaimed Harry, no matter how many Death Eaters he had to fight along the way. He had been an Auror, after all, and he would probably be working with Dumbledore. Harry still felt a little uneasy about Dumbledore, but Moony trusted the Headmaster, and Dumbledore _had_ said he didn't want Harry hurt.

Sirius probably knew where he was right now, and was just waiting for the opportunity to attack the house and bring Harry home. All Harry had to do was wait, and in the meantime, learn everything he could about his prison and his guards, whoever they might be.

--------------------------------

Days passed, but apart from his own body clock telling him to go to sleep, Harry had no way to tell when it was day and when it was night. He wanted to mark time somehow, so he took the blunt end of the toothbrush and in the corner of the room, he scraped at the dry, half-rotted wallpaper until he could peel off a sliver. This left a long mark in the wallpaper with the plaster showing through underneath, and every time the watery-eyed man brought him a meal, Harry made another mark. He thought there might be two meals a day, and this was how he counted the days, one for every two marks.

He was beginning to wonder whether there was anyone in the house apart from himself and the strange, watery-eyed man. He never saw any other person, nor did he ever hear voices from downstairs, though perhaps sound could not penetrate through the barrier on the stairwell. Harry did not know if it was good news or bad news if there was only one man guarding him. After all, that meant only a single person to overcome if he wanted to escape, but on the other hand, it also meant that that Death Eaters were confident that magical barriers alone were going to prevent him from leaving the house. Which meant there must be some very formidable methods in place to keep him imprisoned. Harry began to wonder if it was magic that was keeping Sirius from finding him.

Then, when he had been in the house for about two weeks, the man brought him not only his usual food but a goblet filled with a hot, smoking liquid. The man set down the meal and then held out the goblet.

"You have to drink this."

Harry was curled against the end of the bed, reading one of the books from the study. He stared at the still-smoking cup. "I'm not touching that," he said. It was the first time he had spoken in days, and his voice was rough from disuse. The man twitched a little and stepped forward.

"You have to drink it, or I'll…I'll curse you," he insisted, and then he reached into his robes and drew out a wand.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest and began beating frantically. If he could only get his hands on that wand, he might be able to break through the enchanted barrier on the stairs and escape the house… surely it would so easy…

But the man would be expecting something like that. Harry feigned a look of fright, trying to seem submissive and obedient. He had to make the man let his guard down, gain his confidence. Then perhaps he would have a chance. Hoping against hope that he wasn't about to do something abysmally foolish, Harry stood up and took the goblet. He did not need to fake the reluctance on his face as he looked into the smoking liquid, which was a dark topaz colour. He drained the potion as quickly as he could.

He knew the taste as once, even though he had forgotten it for so many years. Sirius had given it to him to drink, when he was four years old and they had just fled St Mungo's hospital, homeless and desperate. It was Wolfsbane.

He threw the empty goblet down and turned away. He was breathing very hard: the potion had stirred up memories of Sirius, of Harry's childhood, of their lives back then. He felt a rush of miserable homesickness and self-pity. He wanted to see his Godfather again. He wanted to see his smile and know that when Sirius was nearby, he was safe, like when he was just a little child and life had been difficult, but uncomplicated.

The man picked up the goblet and left, stowing his wand back into his robes.

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It was the day of the full moon. Harry felt the tingling as soon as he woke up, but he was sure there had been a mistake. He counted the marks he had made in the wallpaper, and found there were fifty-two – but that only made twenty-six days since his last transformation! How could it be a full moon already?

He must have missed a couple of days, when he had been brought from the first dwelling to the new house. That must be it. Trying not to wonder how easy it was to lose two days out of your life, Harry put his mind to what he would be doing when he transformed tonight. He had been given the Wolfsbane potion every night, but he'd never before been under its influence during the full moon. He didn't know what it would feel like, having his normal human mind but the body of a wolf.

However, he would have to make the most of it. With claws and teeth, he would probably be able to slash the curtains in his room, pull them right down. Maybe smash the window. He might even be able to find a way through the barrier on the stairs, since he would be much stronger. Obviously the man was hoping that the Wolfsbane potion would subdue Harry – but maybe he didn't know about werewolves. Harry was not going to let himself be subdued.

He barely left the bedroom, nervously awaiting nightfall, which he could not see but felt the arrival of. It was very strange to think that he would actually be doing something useful as a werewolf. His whole life, he had dreaded the waning moon every month, and treated it as something to be fearful of. Now, he anticipated it eagerly.

The man brought his meal as usual. It was still watery soup, steamed vegetables and lumpy bread, but Harry didn't even notice the tasteless food tonight. At last, he was sure it was only half an hour before sunset, and he began to pace the floor. How much of his mind would be truly human? Would it be just the madness that was driven out, or would he be totally normal? He had no idea.

And then he heard the door open and looked up just as the watery-eyed man entered, pointing his wand at Harry, who had no chance to dodge as a spell struck him and he felt his arms and legs go rigid. He toppled over and his glasses fell off his face. He couldn't see anything but a blurry shape as the watery-eyed man approached. He tried to shout, but all his muscles were locked up. He couldn't move an inch.

He felt himself lifted into the air and the ceiling floated past as he was hovered across the room. Without his glasses, and unable to turn his head, he couldn't see what the man did as they passed through the barrier over the stairwell. But he felt the angle of his body change as he was floated down several flights of stairs, through the hall, and then down another set of straight stairs into darkness.

His body was still frozen when he heard the clinking of chains and the wheezing of the approaching man, who locked a set of manacles securely around Harry's wrists and ankles. Harry did everything he could to struggle but the spell was still in effect and he couldn't even make a noise in protest. At last, the man tugged the chains to make sure they were secure and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Harry felt his muscles relax. Either the man had removed the freezing charm, or it had worn off. He sat up cautiously, completely blind in the pitch blackness. He gave a frustrated growl as he pulled at the chains hopelessly. Then the growl change in pitch as the transformation began.

It was the strangest night Harry had ever had. His human mind wasn't used to the uncomfortable wolf body, and it took some practise before he could even stand up without falling over. The chains binding him were made of silver and they bit into him, but they seemed to have moulded to the shape of his limbs and he couldn't shake them off. In the end, infuriated that he had been trapped, he simply lay and howled until his throat was beginning to ache. If he was going to be stuck down here all night, he could at least make sure that the watery-eyed man did not get a wink of sleep.

----------------------------------------

Harry awoke to the sound of a lock clicking. He raised his head and saw two figures silhouetted by the rectangle of light that was the door. Finding himself human once more, he rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden brightness, remembering that his glasses were still upstairs somewhere. Then he heard a whispered incantation and the silver manacles snapped open and fell off him.

Harry was on his feet in a moment. Unable to see his opposition clearly he stumbled backwards, pressing himself against the wall, snarling as if he was still a wolf. There were two people here. He could make out the hunched shape of the watery-eyed man, but there was a second figure, very tall and thin. That was the one who had unlocked his chains.

"How spirited he is," said the tall figure in a voice that was high and cruel. Harry gritted his teeth as if the voice had screamed its words. It sounded so familiar. He had heard it before, long ago. It spoke again. "The transformation has done no damage, I see. You are keeping him healthy."

"I-I do everything I can, my lord," the hunched figure whispered.

"That is good, Wormtail," the high voice said. "Do not let your standards slip."

Harry saw a whirling cloak and then the figure disappeared upstairs. His head was spinning. _Wormtail…Wormtail…_ he knew that name, just as he knew the cold, high voice. He remembered them from the distant times when his parents had been alive, before everything had fallen apart. But he had no time to brood on it further. He tried to duck under a spell that flew from the hunched figure's wand, but the freezing charm hit him and he was floated back upstairs into the bedroom.

Once he was able to move again, he found was alone and the door was locked. He fumbled around on the floor until he found his glasses and put them on. Then he curled up on the bed, his brain thumping in his skull, trying to control his overwhelming horror.

Wormtail… 

Sirius had told him what Peter Pettigrew had done, had explained everything to him.

Wormtail… 

And all this time, that man had been in the house with him. Harry only vaguely knew Peter Pettigrew from when he had been a child. His memory of the man was blurred, unrecognisable. But still, he should have known him, should have recognised the traitor. Harry could have screamed at his own foolishness, but he clamped his jaw shut.

About an hour later, Wormtail came back and unlocked the door to the upstairs bedroom, looking more nervous than ever, his eyes flickering from side to side. He was carrying a tray of soggy wheat biscuits in milk, and a wrinkled orange. He turned his head, confused to see that his charge was not sitting on the mildewed bed or reading by the windowsill.

Harry had been waiting beside the door, and he came out of nowhere. The tray of breakfast flew through the air as he knocked it out of Wormtail's hands, milk splattering across the floor. The boy slammed into Wormtail, propelling him out of the door and into the hallway where they both tumbled backwards onto the threadbare carpet.

Wormtail yelled in panic as the child's fists pummelled him, brutally and unceasingly. But he was larger and heavier than Harry and he managed to throw him off and stagger to his feet. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand as Harry scrambled up and resumed his assault.

"Get back!" Wormtail cried, _"C-crucio!_"

Harry fell, his head striking the carpeted floor as his mouth opening in a scream. His back arched as he twisted. His yells echoed down the hallway. Wormtail lowered the wand and the boy went limp. A small sob left Harry's throat, and, trembling, he pulled himself upright, clinging to the doorway of the bedroom for support. But as he raised his eyes, Wormtail stepped back. Harry was looking at him with such hate it almost blistered him.

"You killed them," he spat, his shoulders shuddering. He bared his teeth as he spoke. "My mother, my father – your friends! You sold them to _Voldemort_!"

Wormtail flinched. Harry had even surprised himself. Like most wizards, he had been taught from an early age never to say the Dark Lord's name aloud.

"Get back into your room," Wormtail mumbled. He flicked his wand and Harry felt himself pushed backwards through the doorway. The door slammed shut and he heard the click of the lock.

He threw himself futilely against the door. He could hear Wormtail's footsteps going down the stairs and shouted some curses after him, beating at the door with his fists. But Wormtail was far gone.

Harry raged around his room, wanting to break something, smash something, but even in his fury he knew if he broke one of his belongings he would regret it later. He balled his fists, then his eyes alighted upon the little oil lamp on the table. He clutched it in his hands, bashed it against the bedpost, trying to smash the enchanted, unbreakable glass. He could not even make a dent in the sturdy little lamp, which continued to burn cheerily with its magical flame.

His temper rising further, he hurled the lamp against the wall. It bounced off and rolled under the bed, still glowing. Harry stormed into the bathroom, wanting to rip one of the faucets off the bath, and as he stepped on the puddle of spilt milk his feet skidded out from under him and he grabbed the wall for support. He frowned as he noticed that the wallpaper appeared to be blistering where he had pressed his hand, turning black and charred.

And then he saw that his fingers were on fire.

Harry yelped and dashed into the bathroom, holding his hands in front of him. He was just about to turn on the tap when he suddenly realised something. He couldn't feel a thing.

He stared at his fingers. Tiny golden flames were licking up and down them, glowing as brightly as the oil lamp, but they didn't burn. They didn't hurt a bit. Amazement swelling through him, Harry felt his anger ebbing away. As it went, the flames began to die down and go out.

"No, no!" Harry blew on his hands, trying to focus on the fire, make it stronger and larger. The flames tentatively flickered higher, dancing on the tips of his fingernails and rolling over his knuckles. Harry began to laugh. Magic! He was doing magic!

"Fire – I've made fire!" he cried aloud. Suddenly he realised what this could mean, and rushed back into the bedroom. The flames were dying down again – his anger had been feeding them, but he had forgotten it now – and he sped to the hated curtains that covered the window. As the last of the fire began to splutter and disappear, Harry frantically wiped his hands on the curtains, smearing the flames across them.

"Catch…please, catch…" he muttered to himself as the flames were daubed onto the thick, heavy material. The fire on his fingers had vanished. He stepped back, his heart pounding triumphantly in his chest. Red-gold flames were leaping across the dark curtains, running upwards towards the curtain rail, growing larger and larger. Glowing circles appeared as the fire ate through, and Harry felt a smile break across his face.

Sunlight…he could see sunlight…!

He coughed as a trail of smoke floated past his face and stepped back again to watch the curtains be devoured by the flames. Bits of material sagged and fell away. And then Harry noticed that the flames were licking across the ceiling now, and catching on the wallpaper beside the curtains.

The flames were rushing quickly down the wall now. What was left of the curtains was hanging by a few threads. Harry dashed forward, the smoke billowing into his face, and tried to pat out the flames with his bare hands, coughing, "No, stop…" but then he yelped as the fire singed his palms. It really hurt – the flames were not benign any longer.

The fire was beginning to crackle and roar, the smoke filling the room in thick clouds. Harry choked and stumbled back to the door, jiggling the handle, but of course, it was still locked. He hammered on the door of the bedroom, shouting, "Help! Help, fire! Let me out!" His lungs took in a gust of smoke and he coughed until his head began to spin, getting down onto his knees. There was still fresh air lower down in the room and he continued to hammer on the door. _"Help! Help me!_"

He felt dizzy now. His arms didn't seem to have any strength left. He beat weakly against the solid wooden door, his eyes slipping out of focus, before sagging and letting himself slip to the ground. The flames were running across the carpet. He had to get out…the fire was spreading…but he couldn't even breath, now, and the black smoke seemed to have covered his glasses, because his vision was getting darker and darker…

He felt his head come to rest on the carpet. A million miles away, he could just hear the faint sounds of footsteps thumping upstairs. It was too late, he thought to himself. The air was too hot to breath. I'm done for. He closed his mouth, too weary to even labour to take another breath.

----------------------------------------

"…useless little rat. Oh, our Lord won't be pleased to hear about this, oh, no…" The voice was harsh and gleeful.

"D-don't you dare! He'll…he'll kill me…"

"Punish you, I don't doubt. And won't I be glad to watch," the gleeful voice laughed.

"Y-you shouldn't even be here, Dolohov. If he finds out you followed me here, you d-don't even want to know what he'll d-do to you."

"What're you talking about, rat?"

"It's s-supposed to be a secret, this place. He'll kill you, just to shut y-you up…"

"Liar!"

Harry tried to raise his head, but it was too heavy to lift. He opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling. He breathed in as deeply as he could, the fresh air stinging a little as it entered his scorched lungs, but it revitalised him. He looked down and saw that he was lying on what looked like a dining table, a blanket covering him. He raised one hand and saw that it was covered in bandages. It throbbed brutally, and he lowered it again.

Harry tried to sit up, but his muscles didn't seem to want to work. He didn't think he had been bewitched, he was just too exhausted. The voices were coming through an open doorway nearby, and they rose in pitch as he listened.

"He w-will be angry at you. No one knows about this place but me and him. If you hadn't followed me here, you m-might be safe, but now I don't know what he'll do…"

Then there was the roaring of flames and suddenly a cold voice joined the conversation. "What I'll do about what, Wormtail?" it hissed, as two soft footsteps reached Harry's ears.

"My lord…!"

"Silence, Dolohov," said the cold voice, and there was a bang and the sound of a body crumpling. Wormtail whimpered and Harry heard him scurrying a little way away. "What I will do about _what,_ Wormtail? How did Dolohov get here? And why do I smell smoke?"

"M-master, he followed me…I…I came to call you back but I couldn't find you, and when I returned, he followed me through the fireplace…I couldn't stop him, m-master, I didn't know he was in the house until too late," Wormtail sobbed. Harry could imagine him cringing against the wall in fear, and the image gave him some vindictive pleasure. "Please, m-master…what will you do to him…?"

"Nothing, Wormtail. I will obliviate his memory. He is too valuable to kill. You, on the other hand…" the cold voice whispered, and Wormtail whimpered again. "…but first, tell me what happened."

"Master, I did everything I could…a fire, there was a fire, I don't know how it started…but I put it out, master, I did my best. Dolohov had followed me, he helped me put it out, but I couldn't stop him from seeing the boy…"

"_It was in the boy's room?_"

"Yes, but he's alive, he's alright, only a few burns, master…"

"Very well…"

Harry lay and listened to Wormtail being punished, and the man's pitiful screams made him feel ill. But he blocked them out. A thrill of success was running through him. The shock of the fire, and his near death, faded as he remembered the flames leaping across his fingers.

Magic. He had done magic without a wand. He could barely believe it.

But he had done it. And he could do it again.

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TBC

A/N: God, writing this chapter nearly killed me. I don't know what I found so difficult about it. But writing it was like trying to wade through toxic mud. Slow and painful. Argh.

Thanks to everyone! You are all darlings:

Erinne, LittleCrazy1, DolphinChick22, marthamobley, Elle's Bells, sami1010220, hermione1208, sephiroth's sword, padfootbabeinblack, namariqueen, CrimsonReality, Cruciatus88, Phyre's child13.

And big thanks to my friend Izzy, who beta-read this chapter for me. If you like dark, angsty LotR fanfiction, check out her profile, Pharaohess. Yea, I'm jus' pimpin' on her behalf. (Twiddles thumbs)


	4. The Headquarters of the Order

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"…Because we must remember that vampires are deemed as 'beings' by the International Confederation of Wizards, and as such, we have a legal as well as a moral requirement to treat them with the same regard as we would treat any witch or wizard. Yes, Mr Finnegan?"

Seamus lowered his hand. "Sir, do we have to treat a vampire with regard if it's threatening us?"

Lupin cocked his head. "I don't know the precise laws on vampire attacks, but I imagine that the same laws would apply to a threat from a vampire as a threat from a human, in that if a man attacks you, you have a right to defend yourself. Why, Seamus – have you been threatened by a vampire recently?"

"Why, no sir. I just asked because I've been worried about the way Professor Snape has been looking at my neck recently," Seamus replied.

None of the students could restrain their laughter. Ron guffawed so loudly he had to bite down on his fist to shut himself up and Dean sniggered so much he nearly knocked a bottle of ink off his desk with his elbow. Professor Lupin, leaning against his desk, did not even chuckle: but the corner of his mouth did twitch as if he might be restraining a smile.

"Mr Finnegan, I will not have my colleagues insulted in this classroom. Next time, I'll make you apologise to Professor Snape personally," Lupin said calmly once the giggling from Lavender and Parvarti had quietened. "Now, can anyone give us a few reasons why Professor Snape is most unlikely to be a vampire?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air, and Lupin gestured at her. "Vampires are allergic to the fumes from garlic, sir, their skin is very sensitive to it, and we were using garlic just the other day in potions," she trilled.

"Correct, and well observed, Miss Granger. But let's say there are certain ointments a vampire could use to protect himself from garlic fumes. Any other ways we could tell?"

"Wooden crosses," Dean called.

"Sunlight," Lavender added.

"Wave a bottle of blood under his nose," Ron chipped in.

Hermione raised her hand into the air again, and Lupin nodded to her. She explained, "Those are mostly muggle superstitions. Vampires are nocturnal but not adverse to sunlight and crosses is just nonsense. The blood might work though," she mused.

"Correct again, and five points to Gryffindor," Lupin said. "No, there are other ways to detect a vampire. And-"

He was cut off as the bell rung loudly to signal the end of the lesson. Lupin waved his wand to clear the blackboard and pushed himself away from his desk as the children began to pack away their quills and get to their feet. Lupin called over the bustle, "I'd like a couple of paragraphs on fool-proof methods of identifying a vampire for me over the holidays. Preferably _not_ with the heading 'Exposing Professor Snape' at the top. I'll see you all in a few weeks' time. And do have a good Christmas, everyone!"

"See ya, Professor!"

"Bye, sir!"

"Have a nice holiday, Professor!"

Lupin waved as the last of his second-years disappeared out the door. He gathered up the papers on his desk, and then headed for his office. A few minutes later he emerged, carrying his worn travelling case in one hand and a thick cloak folded under his arm. He brushed through the halls, crowded full of children, who were already celebrating the end of the term by running rather than walking wherever possible. Lupin headed for the entrance hall, raising his hand to students who called to him as he went.

Professor Flitwick was just coming out of his last charms class for the day, carrying a stack of essays on cheering charms from his third-years. His eyes glinted over the top of the pile when he saw Lupin and he squeaked at him, "Escaping so soon, Remus? You won't at least stick around for the feast tonight?"

"I'm afraid I've got somewhere to be, and I have to Apparate from Hogsmeade to get there," Lupin paused to help Professor Flitwick pick up the top two essays, which had slid onto the floor. He asked, "You're staying at Hogwarts over the holidays?"

"Oh, yes, yes, you know how it is," Flitwick said airily, finally managing to lift the stack high enough to point his wand at it and float it in front of him. "Oh, did you know Albus was looking for you last night? Wanted a word about something while you were still here, I think…"

"I spoke to him this morning," Lupin assured Flitwick.

"That's alright then. Well, have a nice holiday!" the Charms teacher called as he tottered away down the corridor, balancing the papers above his head like a solid white storm cloud.

Lupin turned and headed towards the great oaken doors of the castle and out into the weak winter sunshine. The grounds were muddy from recent rain but the sky was clear and blue now, and a cool wind was blowing. Lupin shook out his cloak and wrapped it around himself before he headed down the slope and across the grounds.

At the great gates, topped by their winged boars, he stopped and rapped sharply on the bars. A dull ringing echoed out around him, but a few minutes passed with no response. Lupin knocked on the bars again. "Hagrid! Hagrid, I need you to let me out!"

Suddenly thundering footsteps reached Lupin's ears and he turned to see Rubeus Hagrid striding across the grounds towards him. He waved one enormous hand at Lupin, calling. "Sorry, Remus! Jus' catching a couple o' fire crabs got loose under me bed," he stopped beside Lupin, fumbling at his belt for a huge key that looked to be nearly as long as Lupin's forearm.

"What on earth are you doing with firecrabs in your cabin, Hagrid?" Lupin asked, while the gamekeeper unlocked the huge Hogwarts gates. The process took several minutes, as there were several locks that needed to be opened, including two that had no keyholes but required a password from Hagrid.

"Oh, jus' a project I'm working on for me fourth-years," Hagrid said a little more loudly than was natural. He quickly changed the subject, lowering his voice even though there was no one else in sight. "Will you be coming tonight, Remus?"

"Yes," Lupin replied mildly, taking a few steps backwards as the enormous gates swung inwards. Hagrid only needed to take a single step.

The gamekeeper tucked his thumbs into his belt and leaned forward a little, though his face was still at least a foot above the top of Lupin's head. "And – er – will yer be bringing anyone with you? Dumbledore mentioned that we migh' be moving to-"

"I don't know yet," Lupin cut him off, pulling his cloak around himself more tightly. "That's why I'm leaving early. I think I have a long argument ahead of me."

"Ah, well, tell 'im I fer one 'ud be glad to see him there," Hagrid rumbled, waving his hand in farewell as Lupin slipped out the gates and onto the muddy road beyond.

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With a growl and a splutter, the motorbike fell silent. Sirius dismounted, leaned it against the wall and headed up to the steps to the front door of the block of flats. There was no need to chain up or hide the motorbike – any muggle who tried to take it would get a rather literal shock when they touched it and wander away unable to remember what they had been going to steal.

He opened the door to his flat a few minutes later, went inside and stopped dead. There was a patched cloak hanging by the door and a battered travelling case squatting below it. Remus Lupin was sitting on the couch, reading a magazine he had found on the kitchen table. He looked up as Sirius entered and got to his feet, smiling.

"Moony! And here I thought they wouldn't let you off until Christmas Eve!" Sirius strode forward and embraced his friend. Lupin rolled his eyes as they broke apart.

"You smell like motor oil, Sirius. Are you sure you should be driving that bike to Gringotts every day? Don't they think it's a bit unprofessional?"

"Pah," Sirius waved his hand dismissively and added, "Goblins don't care what I smell like. In fact, they consider it suspicious if a wizard doesn't smell strongly of _something._ Shows he bathes too much, see?"

"I see. And you've never had a problem with bathing too _much._ But I do not think you should be picking up hygiene tips from Goblins," Lupin said sternly.

Sirius laughed, and headed through to the kitchen. "Cup of tea?"

"Yes, please. Mandarin flavour, if you've got it."

He listened to Sirius clattering about the in the kitchen and went to put the magazine back on the table. As he placed it back on the pile, a piece of cream parchment sticking out from under a book of cooking spells caught his eye. He pulled it out and realised it was a letter, addressed to Hestia Jones, but the name at the bottom was not one he recognised. He turned the parchment over and a seething mass of runes and mystic signs met his eye: barely holding back a cry of surprise, Lupin hurriedly dropped the letter back onto the table as if it had bitten him. The symbols were moving and wriggling back and forth as if with a mind of their own, forming strange patterns that appeared and disappeared in an ever-changing rhythm. He had only seen such things drawn on parchment in one instance.

"It's not a curse."

Lupin spun around. Sirius was standing behind him, holding two cups of tea. His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes glinted hard and cold. He held out one cup and Lupin took it, the warmth seeping into his fingers where he had touched the parchment.

Sirius took a sip of his own tea and walked around Lupin to pick up the parchment.

Lupin shuddered as he looked at the seething runes, "Are you sure? It's addressed to Hestia – it looks like some kind of threat…"

"It's not. She just ordered it for me," Sirius replied, smoothing out the parchment and putting it back onto the table. As his hands passed over the strange symbols, Lupin wanted to slap them away. But Sirius calmly slid the parchment back across the table where it lay, innocent and harmless.

"Ordered it for you?" Lupin asked. "As in, it was commissioned for you? That looks like some pretty powerful old spells, Sirius – if it's not a curse, what on earth is it?"

Sirius took another sip of his tea before he answered. His eyes were still following the strange patterns that the runes on the parchment formed and unformed like leaves buffeted by a silent breeze. Finally he said, "It's a finding spell. You know, for detecting something that has been lost."

Lupin closed his eyes for a moment. He said quietly, "Those things are nonsense, Sirius. They don't work."

Sirius turned his head to look at him. "Have you spoken to Dumbledore?"

"Yes, but…"

"Have you asked him?"

"Yes."

"And what does he say?"

Lupin held Sirius's gaze. "The same thing he always says. He's doing everything he can. You know that if there was any word – any clue, any hint, from anywhere – you know he'd act on it like a shot. He has ears everywhere. But there's been nothing, Sirius – it's as if Harry has just…disappeared off the face of the earth."

Sirius looked away again. Silence fell between them. Lupin realised he still hadn't taken even a sip of his tea and quickly put the cup to his lips. It was strong and fruity, exactly as he liked it. When still Sirius did not speak, Lupin said gently, "You know Albus wants to find him just as much as anyone…"

"Six months," Sirius growled. "Six months. And there has been _nothing?_ I can't…live like this for much longer. Knowing that for six months, he's been in their hands, and I don't know what they've done to him. I'm going to explode soon."

"They won't hurt him," Lupin soothed, reaching out to touch Sirius's shoulder.

Sirius flinched away, shaking his head. He turned to Lupin, his eyes flashing coldly, and said bluntly, "Why did Dumbledore let you off so early?"

Lupin sighed and put down his half-empty teacup. "The Order of the Phoenix are meeting tonight. It's our first large gathering for a few months. Albus wants you to come."

Sirius gave a sharp bark of laughter. "I warrant an invitation, do I?"

"Why do you still hold this grudge?" Lupin frowned, folding his arms as if he were reprimanding an impertinent first-year in his class. "Albus has proved, without a doubt, that he wants Harry alive just as much as you do. Think of everything he's done for us since Hogwarts was invaded. Why can't you stop being a right git and just trust him?"

"Because I _am_ a right git," Sirius muttered.

"You're selfish, is what you are," Lupin snapped. "There's a war on, Sirius. How can you ignore that? You've lost so many people to you-know-who. But you won't even lift a finger to fight back. What happened to you? You weren't always like this…you weren't like this when Lily and James were alive."

His barb hit home. Sirius snarled and turned away. Lupin waited to see if he would make some retort, and when he didn't, he knew he had won through. "Come to the Order tonight, Sirius. You may think you've left all the fighting behind you, but really, you just miss it."

Sirius looked back over his shoulder at Lupin, then the muscles of his fists and arms unclenched. He stomped through the doorway into the kitchen and Lupin heard him turn on the tap and wash out his empty teacup. Then the tap was turned off and his voice floated through to Lupin, "I'll go for one night. Just one, okay?"

------------------------------------------

A crack echoed through the dark night as the two wizards appeared out of thin air. Sirius looked around. They were standing in the middle of a dark muggle farm road, with the forest leaning in close on either side. Above them, the night was clear so that the stars illuminated their path just enough to walk by. There was no moon.

"Come along," Lupin was already marching ahead and Sirius jumped to catch up with him. They walked on in silence, the occasional whisper of the wind in the trees keeping time with them. Sirius did not ask how far they were going, or what he would be looking at when they got there.

However, he could not restrain his curiosity completely. "What protects this place?" he asked.

"Fidelius charm," Lupin murmured. "Among other things."

"So I won't be able to see it?" Sirius had experience with the Fidelius charm, having been a secret-keeper himself, all those years before.

"No. But we'll fix that soon enough."

"Does anyone know I'm coming?"

"Only Dumbledore and myself. And Hagrid, I think – Dumbledore must have told him, because he's in charge of the gates of Hogwarts and he has to know when to let anyone in or out. The security is getting maddening. Nobody can go off to Hogsmeade when they want to; Hagrid has to be told in advance who is leaving the grounds. Just in case they're a student or intruder in disguise."

Sirius nodded. "Pity they didn't put all that security on a little earlier."

The conversation lapsed again for a few minutes. Sirius was wrapped up in a large leather jacket with a scarf wound three times around his neck until it covered his chin, but the cold was already eating into his face.

"Alright, now tell me this: what's the _real_ reason I got a personal invite to the Order?"

Lupin didn't turn to look at him, but his voice was a little too casual as he said, "What do you mean?"

"Give it up, Moony. I'm no use to Dumbledore's private army as I am. I'm not an Auror any more. I don't have any contacts in the Ministry. I don't have any money. Maybe I'll be okay in a fight, or for guard duty, but really, is it worth putting up with my wretched company just to recruit another soldier?" he flashed a grin through the darkness. "Especially a solider who still holds a grudge against Dumbledore."

Lupin made a noise that sounded like he was trying to change the topic but couldn't think of anything to say. Finally he explained, "The headquarters that we're going to. We've been meeting here for about five months, which is a long time. Obviously we don't _all_ meet together very often, only on rare nights, like tonight. But Albus believes that somebody has been leaking information about the Order for a while now, and he has decided that it is time we found a new location to assemble at."

"And the relevance of this is…?"

"He likes the look of Grimmauld Place."

Sirius was silent for a few more steps. Lupin tensed himself for an explosion, and also made ready to grab Sirius if he suddenly decided to turn back. But Sirius kept walking. At last he said calmly. "So, what time will the Headmaster be coming tonight? I seem to remember that when I used to be in the Order he always enjoyed arriving last, on the dot."

"I think he's coming at midnight. Why? You're not going to start shouting at him, are you?"

"The thought might have crossed my mind," Sirius grumbled. He looked at his watch: it was eleven-fifteen now. They'd probably get there only a few minutes before Dumbledore.

"If you do, I'll have to curse you," Lupin warned, then added. "For your own good, of course. Most of the people in the Order are rabidly loyal to Dumbledore. If you start yelling in his face, they'll probably assume you're a Death Eater and beat you to a pulp before I can explain otherwise."

"Alright, I'll stay calm," Sirius replied.

Suddenly the trees on their right opened up, and Lupin turned in that direction. There was no path, and instead they were walking through grass that had gone to seed and was as tall as Sirius's knees. The trees were cleared ahead of them, so that the star-packed sky spread before them like a long, wide road. In the distance, the black shape of a farmhouse was silhouetted against the horizon.

There were no lights on in the house, which was a large single-storey building. As they got closer enough to see it in detail, Sirius saw it was derelict and in a state of near-collapse, the beams showing through the broken plaster walls leaning at horrific angles and the tiles of the roof nearly all gone.

"Is this it?"

"No."

Lupin walked around to the side of the house. He seemed to be looking at something on the ground. Sirius wondered if you had to count the bricks, like at Diagon Alley. Then he stopped and they both waited in the cold, dark air. Lupin glanced at his watch every few minutes.

"Is there a portkey?"

"No."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Footsteps met his ears and both of them spun around to see a pink-haired figure hurrying across the field from the opposite direction they had come from.

"This is Tonks' first meeting for about six months," Lupin explained, his voice oddly strained. He was fiddling nervously with his scarf. "She's in the same position as you. She doesn't know how to get in."

"Hello, cousin!" Sirius raised his hand. Tonks looked at him, her face mostly in shadow, but didn't reply. A dark cloak was flung over her shoulders and it billowed behind her as she walked. Her luminous pink hair seemed to glow in the darkness.

Lupin pulled something out of his pocket: it was a scrap of parchment, and he fumbled to unfold it as Tonks approached.

"Is that it?" she asked coolly.

"Yes. Sirius, come over here, you have to read this," Lupin beckoned to him. Both Sirius and Tonks bent over the parchment, which Lupin illuminated briefly with his wand. Sirius was so close to the young woman he could smell the cabbage she had had for dinner. He wanted to nudge her and say something teasing, but something stopped him. He did not think Tonks would appreciate the joke tonight. Besides, she was busy scanning the parchment. Sirius turned his eyes towards it and read:

"The meeting place of the Order of the Phoenix may be found in the storm cellar set below the old Joule farmstead."

Sirius raised his eyes. "But there isn't anything there…" he began, and then instantly felt stupid for saying it. As he watched, planks seemed to rise up out of the ground, overlapping and criss-crossing until a wide pair of cellar doors appeared in the grass, pressed up against the house.

"You can both see it?" Lupin asked. They nodded, and he ignited the piece of parchment with his wand. Once the last ashes of it had floated to the ground, he bent and knocked loudly on the doors.

A moment past, then a dim rosy light could be seen shining through the cracks in the cellar door. The light grew brighter and more golden, flickering and illuminating Tonks' face, standing beside Sirius. He noticed that Lupin was avoiding looking directly at her. Then a voice called out from behind the doors.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Arthur. With Tonks and Sirius," Lupin replied. Sirius thought, _Arthur? As in, Weasley?_

"Come on, now, Remus, what's the password?"

Lupin sighed with a smile. "If I were a Death Eater, Arthur, I think I could have forced such minor things as passwords out of myself. But if you insist. _Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak._"

This succession of nonsense seemed to satisfy the voice behind the planks, because a moment later, there came the sound of bolts being drawn and the doors were pushed upwards. They were rather heavy, and Lupin had to help pull them right open. He held them apart, jerking his head to indicate that Sirius and Tonks should go in first. Sirius ducked under his arm and stepped down into the tunnel beyond.

It was a wide flight of stone stairs that lead, straight as an arrow, downwards. Balding, bespectacled Arthur Weasley was standing below him, holding a candle and smiling at him. "Hello, Sirius! This is a pleasant surprise!"

"For you perhaps, Arthur," Sirius smiled in return, shaking Arthur's proffered hand. "I'm afraid I've been dragged here against my will, kicking and screaming, by Remus."

Arthur laughed. There was a loud clatter as Lupin backed down onto the stairs and then lowered the doors back into place and began pushing the bolts home. It was very crowded in the tunnel now, with all four of them, so Arthur Weasley beckoned with his finger and began walking.

With a jolt of nerves in his chest, Sirius followed him.

------------------------------------------

"_AHHHHHHH!_"

Ron Weasley, who had been having a nice dream about flying, was suddenly jerked awake as surely as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over his face. Befuddled and tangled in his sheets, it took him a moment to figure out where the floor was, and in the end he only found it when he rolled off his four-poster bed and landed on it. He pulled off the enveloping sheets and leapt to his feet.

"_Ah! Ahhhhh! Ah!_"

"What's happened?" Dean's voice emanated from behind his curtains, and a moment later he pulled them back and his frightened face stared at Ron. "Ron? Who…?"

"_Ah! Ah! Ah!_"

"Whozzat?" Seamus' bleary-eyed face peeked out between the curtains of his own bed. "Ron? Dean?"

"Neville!" Ron, in his half-asleep state, finally deduced the only other person in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory. He stumbled towards Neville's bed, fighting to pull back the curtains. Dean was on his feet a moment later and together they managed to drag the curtains open.

Neville Longbottom was lying in his bed, his teeth gritted and his eyes squeezed tight shut, one hand clutching his head and the other clawing at the sheets that entangled him. He was twisting and contorting like an eel out of water: as they watched in horror, he curled into a ball and then stretched and arched his back as if he was being electrocuted.

"Neville!"

"Jesus…"

"Wake up!"

Seamus had joined them now, and the three of them seized Neville by his flailing limbs and hauled him out onto the floor, where he lay, his screams dying into soft cries. He was still shaking and twisting, and Dean grabbed the pitcher of water by his bed and tipped the entire thing over the convulsing boy, splashing everyone else's legs in the process. Still, Neville's eyes remained closed and he continued to shake and writhe.

"He's having a fit…"

"Isn't he epileptic or something?"

"What does that mean?"

"I dunno, it's a muggle thing…"

"Get Professor McGonagall…"

"…get him to the Hospital wing…"

Ron waved his hand at them. "Shush! He's awake!" he dropped to his knees and shook Neville's shoulder. The boy's eyes were half-open and he had gone limp. His mouth moved and he twitched a little. Ron caught the words, _"…don't you dare…please…"_ and then Neville seemed to come to himself. Ron noticed that his hand was rubbing the thin scar on his forehead. His round face looked up at the pale and frightened expressions of the other boys.

"Where…?"

"You're in the dormitory," Ron said nervously. "You were having a fit…"

Neville blinked, pressed the heel of his hand to his head. "Was I? When is it?"

"Er," Ron glanced at Dean and Seamus, who were both staring silently at Neville. "It's the last day of term, remember? We're going home for the Christmas holidays tomorrow…"

"No, what time is it?" Neville tried to sit up and clutched his head again, swaying. Ron helped him to his feet. "Why am I all wet?" Neville asked.

"It's quarter past eleven," Dean said, looking at the clock beside Neville's bed. "And I, er, threw a pitcher of water over you. Sorry mate."

Neville did not hear this last sentence: when he heard 'Quarter past eleven', he groaned and staggered. His legs seemed unable to support him and Ron had to put his arm around the shorter boy's shoulders to keep him upright. "Midnight…he's coming at Midnight…he'll still be here…" Neville muttered. Then he raised his head. Ron, who was used to seeing Neville hiding behind his books in class and sitting alone in the common room, had never beheld such a fierce gleam in the boy's eye.

"I have to go…find Dumbledore…" Neville exclaimed, pushing Ron away and blundering towards the door to the dormitory.

"Neville!" Ron grabbed the back of his pyjamas, which had a pattern of toads on them. "Don't be mad, mate! Look, you're sick, I'll take you to the Hospital wing, okay?"

"No!" Neville struggled against Ron's grip, but he seemed weak and sickly after his fit and Ron, alarmed at the boy's behaviour, hung on tight. "Please…let me go…I have to warn Dumbledore…"

"He's barking," Seamus said loudly, and Ron shot him a glare.

"Okay, we'll go and see Dumbledore," Ron soothed him, taking a firmer grip on Neville's elbow. "We'll go right now, okay? I'll take you there."

"Okay, but we have to hurry," Neville strained towards the door. Ron looked over his shoulder at Dean and Seamus, who were still standing in front of Neville's untidy bed, staring at the other two boys. Ron mouthed at them, 'Hospital wing'. Seamus and Dean nodded.

"We'll…er…we'll just stay here, then," Dean suggested.

----------------------------------------

TBC

No author's notes today, I think…thanks to all reviewers, and thanks to Izzy again for beta reading. Remember to leave a review if you can, every little one gives me a boost. Most especially I just want to know what you think, even if it's not positive – it really helps me to see what are the parts people do and don't like.

Cheers, and the next chapter will be up in a couple of days' time :)


	5. The Imposter

A/N: Gar: should have updated yesterday but ffn decided I was a virus and ate every document I uploaded. So today is early morning update day!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Ron lead Neville, who was having difficulty walking in a straight line, out of the Gryffindor common room and down the darkened hallways towards the Hospital wing. He had had the sense to bring his wand to light the way, but Neville didn't seem to be able to see properly anyway. He kept muttering to himself, but Ron could not catch the words.

"We're going the wrong way," Neville said as they passed a staircase. "Dumbledore's office is this way…"

"No, no, you're confused, it's this way," Ron insisted, pointing at a corridor which he knew lead sooner or later to the Hospital wing. Neville tried to pull away from him, and Ron hung on tighter.

"Let me go!" Neville was shouting now, and he sounded nearly hysterical. Ron tried to shush him, glancing around uneasily. The portraits around them were waking up, shaking their fists at the two boys. Neville's wails grew louder, "_Let me go! I have to warn Dumbledore!_"

"Now what's going on here?" a thin, cracked voice hissed. Ron gulped as Argus Filch, wearing a long, scummy nightgown and carrying a candle, limped into view around the corner. Mrs Norris padded around his feet, mewing. "Students out of bed, is it?" Filch cackled. "Oh, I haven't caught any for months, what a treat…"

"I'm taking him to the hospital wing!" Ron protested. "He's sick, he's had a fit…"

"I have not had a fit!" Neville yelled. In the light from Filch's candle he looked very pale and ill, his eyes sunken and lined with shadows.

"Excuses, excuses," Filch wheezed. "Well, we'll just see how you like spending the night locked in my office, and in the morning I'll deal with you…"

"_No!_" Neville was wriggling so hard now Ron had to tuck his wand into his pants to grab the boy with both hands. "No! I have to see the Headmaster! It's an emergency!"

"Emergency, is it? Perhaps your head of house could tell you how much of an emergency it is when they take all those points off?"

"Yes, Professor McGonagall! Call Professor McGonagall!" Neville begged. "Please, we haven't got _time!_"

"Oh, no, I won't do anything of the sort…"

"What's going on here, Filch?" said a stern voice. Professor McGonagall had just come around the corner and her nostrils were white as she took in the two students out of bed. Ron saw to his surprise that McGonagall was not dressed in a dressing gown or slippers: she was wearing full-length robes, boots and a travelling cloak, as well as a fur-lined pointed hat. She looked as if she was going out for a tramp through the woods. "Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom! What are you doing out of bed?"

"Professor!" with a final struggle, Neville wrenched his arm out of Ron's grasp and dashed towards her. "Please! I have to see Dumbledore!"

McGonagall took one look at him, grabbed his arm and said, "Come with me at once then, Longbottom."

"What?" Ron stumbled after them, ducking around Filch as the caretaker tried to grab him with his wizened claws. McGonagall and Neville were disappearing up the corridor that Neville had claimed lead to Professor Dumbledore's office. He followed them, jogging behind McGonagall's heels, until they stopped outside a large stone gargoyle.

McGonagall opened her mouth, but Neville beat her to it. "Sherbert Lemon, Sherbert Lemon!" he gasped, and the gargoyle immediately sprang aside to allow them passage.

Ron gaped at Neville. How on earth did he know the password to the _Headmaster's office_?

"Wait here, Mr Weasley," McGonagall commanded.

"Professor, I'm not waiting out here for Filch to get me!" Ron retorted.

"I don't have time to argue…" McGonagall swept through the doorway, Neville straining ahead of her, but as Ron had done, she was still holding onto him tightly. She seemed afraid of what he might do if let loose. Ron ducked through the doorway as it closed behind them. McGonagall glared at him, then said, "You may not repeat anything you hear tonight to anyone, do you understand?"

"Of course, Professor," Ron nodded. The staircase beneath their feet was rotating, lifting them upwards. At last they stopped in front of a tall wooden door, and McGonagall pushed it open without even bothering to knock first.

Ron stared around him in wonder as they entered. He had never seen a place such as this: though the room was light by only a few candles, this made it seem all the more enchanting, as unseen objects glimmered in the shadows, and rows upon rows of portraits snoozed in their frames high above him. Dumbledore himself was standing in front of a roaring fireplace, and like McGonagall, he was dressed in warm travelling clothes and walking boots.

"Ah, Minerva, ready to be off…?" Dumbledore raised his head and suddenly realised McGonagall was not alone. He raised his thick white eyebrows in surprise. "Are we to have company?"

"Professor!" Neville broke free of McGonagall's grasp and threw himself forward, nearly crashing into Dumbledore's desk. In an instant, Dumbledore was by his side and guiding the distressed boy into a chair. Neville gasped, "It's happened again, Professor! I had to come…"

"What did you see, Neville?" Professor Dumbledore said quietly. Ron glanced from McGonagall, standing stiffly by the doorway, to Neville, who was nearly sobbing with urgency.

"There was a woman, and others, but they had masks, and she…they hurt her…I was _h-him_," Neville sobbed. "I – I mean, _He_ – stepped up to her and did…you know, the thing, Legili-whatsit, and he got what he wanted, and then they cut off some of her hair…they know that you're coming, Professor, they know you're coming at midnight and they're waiting for you, they're going to kill you…and the woman was shouting at them, and then I woke up…"

"This was just now?"

"Half an hour ago," Neville nodded. Under Dumbledore's gaze, he was calming a little.

"What did the woman look like? Did you hear her name? Do you know who she was?"

Neville shook his head. "No. She was young; she had brown hair, kind of greyish-brown. She said, 'don't you dare…' then she said, 'please…don't hurt Remus…' and that's all I got. They didn't seem to want to kill her, but I think they were going to…"

Dumbledore nodded. He paused for a moment, and then took out his wand. "I have to know for sure who this woman was, Neville. I think I will recognise her if I see her. But will you allow me to…?"

"Of course, Professor," said Neville. Ron frowned, wondering what was going on. He watched as Dumbledore gently touched Neville's forehead with his wand, and then spoke, very quietly.

"Legilimens." 

It lasted a brief moment. Neville's teeth were gritted, his face screwed up, and then Dumbledore pulled his wand away and Neville slumped forward a little.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Neville rubbed his forehead.

Dumbledore straightened up. His eyes were cold and hard. "Minerva, what is the time?"

"Quarter to midnight," McGonagall said at once, as if she had been waiting for the question. "Professor, what did Neville see? Is this to do with tonight?"

"Yes. We must go at once. Don't worry about Apparating from Hogsmeade, there is no time, we will floo there. I can remove the barriers on the exit fireplace as we go," he strode towards the fire, took a bag from the shelf, a pinch of powder from within and the flames roared emerald green as he threw the powder over them. McGonagall went to his side.

Dumbledore looked back over his shoulder at Neville, sitting in the chair at his desk, and Ron, standing lost and muddled by the doorway.

"Both of you return to your dormitory, and do not leave it," he instructed. "Neville, try to get some sleep – and thank you."

With that, he put his foot into the green flames and murmured something under his breath. McGonagall followed him a moment later.

Ron looked at Neville, who was now resting his head on Dumbledore's desk, looking exhausted. After a moment, the round-faced boy got wearily to his feet and went over to Ron, saying, "We better go back to bed."

"Back to bed?" Ron gulped. "After everything that's happened tonight?"

"Dumbledore will take care of it," said Neville, as calm as anything, as he pushed open the door to the office and went down onto the stairs. Ron followed him, feeling as if his knees had turned to jelly. Something very strange had happened, and he hated knowing that he had not understood a bit of it.

As they walked through the darkened corridors back to Gryffindor tower – there was no sign of Filch or Mrs Norris – Ron asked, his voice shaking a little, "You said 'again' – this has happened before?"

"Twice," said Neville. "But…never so urgent…"

Ron shuddered, remembering the panic and desperation Neville's face, and how quickly Dumbledore had believed him. "Are you a Seer?"

Neville, staring straight ahead, shook his head. "No."

"But then…what was that? Your dream – it was _real_?"

Neville nodded. "I hope the woman is okay," he said aloud.

"Yeah…er…me too," Ron replied, as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

----------------------------------------

The tunnel was not very long: within a few minutes, Sirius saw light glowing at the end of it and he followed Arthur Weasley out into a wide, low-ceilinged room. Several closed doors lead off it, and a large fireplace that was unlit and empty of fuel occupied one wall. A long table filled most of the room, and set around it were many mismatched chairs.

People filled the room, one of the strangest groups of people Sirius had ever seen. From bandy-legged, ginger-haired, ragged-clothed Mundungus Fletcher, who squatted in the corner swilling a bottle of butterbeer, to tall, stately Kingsley Shacklebolt, who stood in front of the unlit fireplace, staring moodily into its depths. At the table was Edgar Bones, chatting animatedly to a bored-looking Sturgis Podmore, and there – Sirius took a sharp breath. There was Emmeline Vance, second-in-command to the Minister himself – Sirius had not expected _her_ to be here. His eyes ranged over the other faces around the room, some familiar, some unfamiliar, and he felt his stomach flop when he saw a hooked nose and a veil of greasy black hair hovering in the corner.

Before he could move towards Severus Snape, a squeaky voice cried, "Sirius! Well, it's good to see _you_ here!" And Sirius found tiny Dedalus Diggle throwing his arms around him. "And here I was thinking all those years of exile had left you a coward, Sirius!"

"Er…no more than usual," Sirius said, as several more people got up to welcome him. Emmeline Vance turned her eyes towards him but did not move from her chair. Sirius caught sight of Snape over someone's shoulder, but the potions Professor had not left his corner.

Another knock on the door sent Arthur Weasley scurrying back up to answer it, and a few moments later Hestia Jones came trundling down the stairs after him, unbuttoning her thick woollen cloak. She thumped Lupin on the back when she caught sight of him. "Whew – bloody icy night out there. Sorry I'm late, Remus, I – good _lord, _is that Sirius?"

Sirius gaped at her in return. "You didn't tell me you were in the Order!"

"I could say the same to you!" Hestia retorted, rolling her cloak up and dumping it on a bench nearby.

"I wasn't, until tonight," Sirius grumbled. Hestia raised her eyebrows at Lupin, who gave her a quietly triumphant smile.

"Well, it's good to see you anyway," Hestia chuckled, turning to the rest of the crowd. She hurried over to Tonks, who was sitting by herself at the table, looking rather nervous. Hestia dropped down next to her. "Hello, Tonks. Get away from Auror headquarters alright?"

"Hello," Tonks replied. "Er…no, I was staying at my parents' house tonight. They weren't home, though."

"They on holiday, or fled the country?" Hestia asked, only half-joking.

"Er…I don't know…just out for the evening, I think," Tonks looked away.

Sirius and Lupin took a seat a little way down the table. Dedalus Diggle went to get a round of drinks from one of the side rooms, but only a few people took up the offer. Most did not seem to share Diggle's jovial attitude. There was a definite tenseness to the atmosphere. Lupin explained to Sirius that nobody felt very secure with so many of the Order members meeting in one place, but Dumbledore had organised the night personally, to discuss a new headquarters.

"This is getting worse and worse," Sirius said bitterly. "Is that really the _only_ reason I'm invited tonight? For my house?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Lupin rolled his eyes. "There's also…" but he suddenly frowned, looking past Sirius at the dead fireplace where Kingsley Shacklebolt was still standing. Suddenly he was on his feet. "Kingsley! Look!"

The tall black wizard stepped back as flames licked out of the hearth, and something within could be seen, revolving very fast and growing larger and larger every moment. In an instant, a dozen wands were drawn and pointed at the fireplace as everyone in the room realised what was happening and prepared to defend their headquarters.

"But there are barriers – no one can floo in here…" Edgar Bones was shouting as Kingsley and Emmeline called for stunning spells to be fired on their command.

And then a deep, booming voice roared out of the flames, a voice nobody could doubt was the voice of Albus Dumbledore, "_All of you – get out of the way!_"

The Headmaster erupted out of the fireplace, his robes twisting around him like streamers, his white beard illuminated green and red by the flames, his wand already raised. He landed on the wooden floor without a sound, took two steps forward to steady himself, opened his mouth and cried, _"Stupefy!"_ before anyone had time to see where he was pointing.

The red bolt of light that flew from the end of Dumbledore's wand hit Nymphadora Tonks squarely in the chest, and threw her backwards. She crashed into a bench against the wall and sprawled onto the ground where she lay prone, stretched out, her head turned to the side.

Cries and yells filled the room. Sirius grabbed Lupin around the chest as he tried to leap over the table to reach Tonks. Minerva McGonagall suddenly emerged out of the fireplace after Dumbledore and was nearly stunned by Diggle before he realised who she was. Several people turned their wands on the Headmaster, apparently under the impression that he was attacking everyone: but Dumbledore had lowered his wand and waited a moment before he commanded, "Silence, all of you!"

It took only a moment before the noise died down to nothing. Dumbledore strode forward and walked around the table to look down at the unconscious Tonks. Hestia had knelt by her head to check that she was not injured, but after a moment she stood up, a shocked expression on her face. She was holding a small leather case which she had apparently taken from within Tonks' pocket, and was looking at the contents.

People broke into conversation, babbling to each other in their confusion.

"What's going on?"

"Is she a spy?"

"Tonks? _Never!_"

Dumbledore raised his hand and there was quiet once more. He was looking directly at Lupin now, who was still being restrained by Sirius. The Headmaster's voice was cold as he spoke. "Remus, did you meet Tonks tonight and allow her to enter?"

Lupin was white as chalk, and Sirius could feel him shuddering a little. "Merlin's beard, Albus…I'm sorry…I didn't check, I didn't even ask her a question…"

Dumbledore turned away and his eyes ranged over the rest of the group. Everyone waited in silence for him to speak. At last, he did. "Emmeline, Kingsley, Hestia, Edgar, Sturgis – floo to a point from which you can Disapparate, and then Apparate to the house of Andromeda and Ted Tonks at once. There is still a chance Nymphadora Tonks is alive, but to my knowledge, at least three Death Eaters are still there. Go now."

The five he had chosen nodded and Kingsley turned and ignited the fireplace with his wand. Someone passed him a bag of Floo powder and he and Emmeline vanished into the flames. Hestia threw the leather case she had taken from Tonks' robes to Dumbledore before she, Edgar Bones and Sturgis Podmore disappeared into the fire.

Lupin sat down heavily on the chair. He was staring at a point just over Dumbledore's left shoulder, and his expression was blank with shock.

Dumbledore opened the case Hestia had thrown him. Within, snugly wrapped, were two glass bottles. One was full of a thick soup which Dumbledore sniffed and then put back into its place. He handed the other bottle to Snape, who had come to stand beside him.

"The first one is Polyjuice potion. Severus, you'll have to tell me for sure, but I assume the second is some kind of poison."

"Polyjuice potion?" someone echoed.

Dumbledore nodded. "Does anyone know whether this person," he nudged the unconscious body on the floor, "ate or drank anything tonight?"

"No, she didn't – I mean, _they_ didn't," said Diggle, who was knotting his fingers together nervously.

"Then the potion should wear off soon enough," Dumbledore walked back around the table and looked into the flames. "Then we will know who the intruder is, and we will decide what to do with them," he raised his head to look around the circle of shuffling witches and wizards. "Whoever they are, they have seen all of your faces and no doubt did not come here with anything but malignant intent. We have been breached, my friends: not for the first time, not for the last – and we can only deal with this encroachment as best we can. We cannot truly take back what this person has seen."

Severus Snape had knelt and was already shooting cords from his wand to bind and gag 'Tonks' very tightly. He looked up at the Headmaster, saying quietly, "Perhaps it would be best to kill them as soon as possible. That would solve our problems."

"I do not think we need to go so far just yet, Severus," Dumbledore reproached him.

They waited, some of the Order members murmuring between themselves. Sirius was sitting next to Lupin, all his anger having vanished after one look at the expression on Lupin's face. The young Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was unable to tear his eyes away from the intruder lying on the floor with Tonks' face. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

Then someone cried out and pointed, and Dumbledore stepped back as the face of the person lying on the floor rippled. The skin seemed to stretch and sag, growing paler and spottier, Tonks' spiky hair becoming limp and straight and the bright pink fading away. A pointed chin sprouted to fill the sagging cheeks so that the skin became stretched taut once more. At last, the transformation was over: a short man with a long, twisted face was lying where Tonks had been a moment before.

This time, it was Lupin who grabbed Sirius' arm to keep him from launching himself at the Death Eater.

"Sit down, Sirius, for God's sake!" Lupin's voice was still weak and horrified.

Sirius tried to wriggle out of his grasp. He hissed, "It's him! Let me go…He's the one – _Moony, he's the one who took Harry!_"

Before Sirius could get anywhere near the Death Eater, however, another figure had jumped over the table and tried to attack the unconscious man. Dumbledore and Snape together had to grab the red-haired figure, who to everyone's surprise, bore face was contorted in rage as no one had ever seen it before.

"Arthur!" Dumbledore roared, pushing him back into a nearby chair. "Get a hold of yourself – this is despicable behaviour…"

Arthur Weasley was trembling and growling. "Dolohov," he spat, "murdering scum! He killed the Prewetts, Dumbledore, he was convicted of it, but he escaped…the swine escaped, and he's been murdering others for you-know-who ever since…"

"Arthur, for goodness' sake, we are going to deal with Dolohov," Dumbledore said sternly. "But I won't have vengeance breaking out in my presence – that goes for you too, Sirius," he added, looking over at Sirius, who was muttering mutinously where he sat. "And another thing. In all the confusion, I forgot to thank you for coming tonight."

Sirius glanced at the Headmaster, whose expression had softened a little. "You're welcome, Albus," he said grudgingly.

"I assume Remus told you why you were invited?"

Sirius nodded.

"Then you will understand why your part is all the more vital after what has happened here tonight. We will not be able to meet here again. But I will discuss this with you later – someone is returning – "

They all turned towards the fireplace, where a figure appeared, spinning very fast. After a moment, Edgar Bones, his coat-tails flying, stepped out of the flames, coughing a little. His face was grim but he did not seem to be injured.

"What news?" Dumbledore asked at once.

Edgar ran his hand through his hair. "She's alright, Albus –" Sirius felt Lupin slump against his shoulder in relief, "Emmeline and Sturgis have taken her to St Mungo's. There were three Death Eaters in the house, like you said, but they scattered as soon as we arrived. Emmeline and Sturgis both caught a nasty slash from one of the buggers, but they're alright too. Hestia and Kingsley have gone to look for Andromeda and Ted, but as far as we can tell, they've just been out at a friend's place, they had no idea anything had happened."

Dumbledore nodded at Edgar, and looked around at the remaining members of the Order. He sighed, "All of you must leave at once. I do not know whether more Death Eaters will come to this house now that they know their first plan has been thwarted. Arthur, Severus, both of you stay with me, we are going back to Hogwarts. Remus, you stay too, I need to speak with you."

Within moments the members of the Order had donned their cloaks and hurried up the tunnel into the darkness. Only McGonagall, Sirius, the sleeping Dolohov and the ones Dumbledore had asked to stay remained. Arthur was still seething as he looked at the Death Eater. Sirius suddenly remembered why it was the normally mild-mannered Weasley was so furious – he had heard about the murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Their sister was Molly Weasley, Arthur's wife, and Arthur had been very close to his brothers-in-law. No wonder he was so eager to hurt Dolohov.

Dumbledore went over to the fireplace and sprinkled some fresh Floo powder on it.

"Sirius, you can go home for now," he said.

"Unlikely, Headmaster," Sirius replied. "I'll stay with Remus for now, if you don't mind."

Dumbledore did not answer him. He flicked his wand and Dolohov's body floated up slid through the air until it was hovering beside him, as if borne by an invisible stretcher. The Headmaster beckoned for them all to follow him into the flames, then he took a hold of the floating Dolohov's collar and stepped into the fire.

-----------------------------------------

Sirius emerged, rubbing soot out of his eyes, and found they had arrived in a disused classroom in Hogwarts. The classroom was empty of all furniture and the walls were beginning to grow mildew. Dumbledore and Snape were laying Dolohov to one side, small clouds of dust rising as they lowered him to the ground. Sirius stepped out of the way as Arthur Weasley came spluttering out behind him, followed by Lupin, who stumbled and grabbed the mantelpiece to keep himself upright and had to jump sideways to avoid being bowled over by Professor McGonagall, who stepped regally out of the hearth, brushing a live coal off her shoulder. Then Dumbledore straightened up and turned to them.

"We had a very close call tonight," he said softly, looking at Lupin, who was staring at his feet. "Dolohov did not come just to spy on our meeting. I believe he was going to do his best to poison us – probably not all of us, but myself at least, and then slip away without any of us being the wiser. He may easily have succeeded if by luck I had not been forewarned of him. Remus, I have repeatedly reminded the Order to remain vigilant with each other as well as with strangers."

Lupin didn't answer. Arthur Weasley burst out, "That's not fair, Albus! None of us would have suspected that it wasn't really Tonks walking in there."

"_I_ should have," said Sirius. Everyone turned to look at him. "I'm sorry, but I should have known at once that something was up. Tonks – I mean, who we thought was Tonks – she wasn't behaving normally. She's always so cheery and annoying, but tonight she didn't even speak unless spoken to. And besides that – her hair was all pink."

"Nymphadora is a metamorphmagus, Black, unless you have forgotten already," Snape said smoothly.

Sirius bristled but did not rise to the bait. "I know that. But whenever she goes anywhere near Remus, her hair goes brown. I should have picked up on that. I'm sorry."

Dumbledore sighed. "Thank you, Sirius, and it is no matter now, disaster has been avoided and we cannot change the past with hindsight," he turned back to Lupin. "Remus, what I fear is that of all the members of the Order gathering tonight, the Death Eaters could have impersonated any one of them and still not been able to enter because of the fidelius charm. Any one of them but Sirius or Tonks – the only two who were to be shown the secret tonight. The very fact that the Death Eaters discovered the time and place of our meeting disturbs me, but the fact that they knew the only possible way of sneaking in uncovers worse possibilities."

McGonagall spoke up this time. "Headmaster, many of the Order knew that Tonks hadn't been to the storm cellar yet. I hope you're not suggesting that Remus is somehow responsible…"

"I am not suggesting anything yet," Dumbledore cut her off. "But perhaps I will continue this later. Severus, I need you to fetch a small bottle of Veritiserum. The two of us will question Dolohov ourselves. Sirius, much as I appreciate you, you should go home – I will come to speak to you about your house at a later date. Arthur – if you will consent, you have the most important job to do tonight. You are going to help us dispose of Dolohov once we have learned all we can from him."

"I…I am?" Arthur Weasley said nervously. Dumbledore nodded.

Sirius began to protest, but Lupin cut him off. "It's alright," he said. "I don't need you to hold my hand, Sirius. Go home and get some sleep."

Sirius made an indignant face, then he sighed in resignation. He thumped Lupin's shoulder to say goodbye. "Come see me as soon as you're finished here. Don't let old Dumb-door forget you're on holiday now."

"I heard that," Dumbledore said, but his voice was not reproachful.

Without reply, Sirius turned away and put his foot into the flames and cried his address. He was sucked through the floo network, his stomach churning as he spun around and around. Then, the wind rushing through his ears, he stumbled out into his small flat in London.

-----------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: A short note about the Prewetts connection. Although in the books there is very little information about them, JKR has stated on her website that Molly Weasley's maiden name was Prewett, and I think she said (or at least suggested) that Gideon and Fabian, who really _were_ murdered by Antonin Dolohov in the books (although probably not just Dolohov, but a number of other Death Eaters as well) were Molly's brothers. So I imagine there would be a lot of bad blood between Mr Weasley and Dolohov.

:) Thankeee everyone.


	6. An Unspeakable Speaks Out

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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It wasn't until mid-morning the next day that Sirius, moping around the flat, heard a whooshing sound and rushed into the main room to find an exhausted-looking Remus Lupin climbing out of his fireplace, grumbling loudly that he hadn't eaten since yesterday. Sirius hurried to pull up a chair and whip together breakfast for his friend, then sat down opposite him and waited with tense nerves for Lupin to finish eating.

"Well?" Sirius asked, arms folded and one foot jiggling with impatience, once Lupin finally pushed away the empty cereal bowl and the plate that had held toast and eggs. "Has he talked yet? Has he said anything?"

Lupin sighed and pushed his bowl away. "I'm sorry, Sirius."

"Nothing? But Dolohov _must_ know – he was the one who took Harry!"

"I know, I know," Lupin rubbed his head wearily. "I've already had a row with Dumbledore this morning over the whole thing. But all Dolohov said was that after…after the Death Eaters Disapparated from the Great Hall they rallied at some meeting point, and Bellatrix Lestrange ordered him to follow her with Harry…he claims he doesn't remember any more. And he was under Veritiserum, so I'm afraid I have to believe him."

Sirius felt his stomach curl up into a heavy, painful lump. He had barely slept last night. He had been so sure that Dolohov would have the answer; Dolohov would be able to lead the Order straight to Harry. To have that torn away made him feel sick and desperate.

The image of his Godson flashed through his mind. Recently, dreams had surfaced in his sleeping mind of the basement where he, Sirius, had been held captive, all those years ago, in the days after the murder of the Potters. But in the dreams, it was now Harry whom Sirius could see – Harry, bound and unconscious, lying helpless at the feet of Bellatrix Lestrange. Or, worse still, Harry cornered and frightened, holding out his arms and crying for Sirius – but Sirius could never reach him…

"Don't give up yet. Dumbledore thinks Dolohov has probably had his memory obliviated very neatly," Lupin continued. "And he says any memory charm can be broken, with time and effort. He'll keep at Dolohov – it just might take some days. But if the man knows anything about Harry, Dumbledore will get it out of him. I promise."

"Promise," Sirius crossed his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them, hiding his face. His voice, slightly muffled, gave a bitter laugh. "Dumbledore and his promises. They've been a great help so far, I can't wait to see what Dumbledore's promises do next – you know, maybe I should have gone to join the Death Eaters last night, I think they'd be more helpful than your Headmaster has been…"

"Stop it," Lupin said in exasperation, "Dumbledore wants to break the memory charms in Dolohov's head just as much as you do. And so do I," he added pointedly. "So just stop acting like you're the only damn one who cares about Harry. But there are other things at stake here too – Dolohov claims he doesn't know how the Death Eaters found out about the meeting of the Order, or how they knew Tonks was receiving the instructions for entering the Fidelius charm from me. Dumbledore reckons he's had that wiped from his memory too, which means there is much more here than simple bad luck for us."

Sirius made a sneering face. "Bet you anything Snape's been dabbling with the Death Eaters. He's always been into the Dark Arts. Why did Dumbledore want _you_ to stay behind, anyway?"

Lupin ran his hand through his greying hair and made a face. "He was testing me. The Death Eaters finding out about Tonks really scared him, he had to make sure I wasn't under the imperius curse, or worse – a traitor."

"You? He didn't! Besides, I thought there was no way to tell if someone was Imperiused…"

"Dumbledore can tell," answered Lupin simply.

"…and if he was so sure someone was a traitor, why didn't he hold me back to test me too?"

Lupin shook his head. "You didn't know I was going to give Tonks the secret, so you couldn't have been the one who told the Death Eaters. They probably didn't know that we were even using the fidelius charm until they questioned Tonks. Dumbledore says that you-know-who was at Tonks' parents' house last night, and he…he used _legilimency_ on her himself…"

Lupin gave a small shudder and put his hands around the mug of orange juice Sirius had provided. After a moment, he continued. "I've been at St Mungo's this morning."

"She's alright?"

"Roughed up pretty bad, but its all superficial damage, nothing the Healers couldn't fix in a jiffy. She's very drowsy. They've got her full of sleeping potions, so she kept dozing off halfway through her sentences. She doesn't remember much about last night," Lupin shrugged, "but she feels awful about letting herself get caught by Death Eaters."

"I bet you cheered her up," Sirius said, but he did not smile as he said it. He wasn't thinking about teasing Lupin at that moment. His stomach felt full of lead, and _Dolohov…Dolohov will know…_kept running through his head like the dirge at some inane funeral.

Lupin went slightly pink at Sirius's comment and stared into his orange juice. He cleared his throat before he went on, "Actually, she kept asking about you, when she heard you might be joining the Order. And about her parents, but they're both fine, they turned up while I was still there. The Healers made me leave because she started cheering when I told her Dolohov was going to Azkaban."

"Azkaban? But…you said they were still…still questioning him about Harry!"

Lupin nodded. "Dumbledore will keep questioning him, but he can't keep Dolohov in an empty classroom at Hogwarts. He's being handed over to the ministry-"

"But he knows all about the Order, now! Dumbledore must be mad…!"

"No, he's sorted it all out. Haven't you read the paper this morning?" Lupin bent down and pulled a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ out of the cloak he had discarded on the floor. He unfolded it and spread it out in front of Sirius. "It's a late morning edition, the Ministry held up the printing presses just to get the story in today's news. Moody's very pleased."

Sirius took the paper. On the front page, smiling nervously and waving at the camera, was a large picture of Arthur Weasley. He was shaking hands with Minister Moody while several Aurors stood menacingly behind the two of them. The headline declared:

EARLY BIRD CATCHES THE CROOK

"Ministry worker Arthur Weasley, a dedicated member of the Defence Department, has always gotten to work on time. But today his punctuality paid off for him and the Ministry when he arrived to work early this morning to find a wanted Death Eater trying to break into a restricted area of the Ministry.

_Antonin Dolohov, who has been a fugitive for several years since he escaped Ministry custody just after being convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett, was caught this morning trying to enter a highly guarded door in the depths of the Ministry. Mr Weasley, the man who caught the dangerous wizard red-handed, managed to stun Dolohov before raising the alarm. Trained Aurors arrived on the scene within minutes to take Dolohov into custody. Dawlish, one of the Aurors, said that Dolohov was, "probably confunded, by the look of him."_

Minister of Magic Alastor Moody said that Weasley showed, "real nerve" and is planning to offer the courageous worker an Order of Merlin, Second class. Mr Weasley, however, says he plans to refuse the award, as he "only did what anyone would do. It wasn't brave or anything," a modest Weasley told reporters, "really, I just want everyone to forget about it."

Sirius, despite his disappointment about Dolohov's lack of information, could not restrain a quiet chuckle. "Poor Arthur. It was all a set up, I suppose?"

"Yes," Lupin watched the photograph of Mr Weasley trying to shield his eyes from the flashing of the cameras. "Dumbledore couldn't let the Ministry get a hold of a prisoner who would gladly spill secrets about the Order. You know how paranoid Moody is when it comes to Dumbledore doing things behind his back. He modified Dolohov's memory so that he wouldn't know where he'd been all night, then Kingsley left him with a freezing charm outside the door to the Department of Mysteries and Arthur just had to wait until the morning, walk up, stun him properly and call the rest of the Aurors. Dumbledore had a hard time convincing Arthur to go through with it, I'll tell you that, but eventually he agreed. This way, Dolohov goes to prison without anyone knowing he had anything to do with the Order."

"Except the Death Eaters," Sirius replied.

"Yes, but they're going to realise that Dolohov failed his mission and I don't think they'll be too happy with him. He might be glad he's stuck in prison instead of in their hands," Lupin pointed out.

Sirius thought of Dolohov sitting in Azkaban, and the faint possibility that Dumbledore would be able to break his memory charm and maybe – just maybe – find out something about Harry, and the knots in his stomach loosened a little. He wished he could go to Dolohov's cell right now, force him to tell… never mind Dumbledore or Dementor guards… once again he saw Harry, calling for him…

His morbid thoughts must have showed on his face. In an attempt to distract him from thoughts of Dolohov, Lupin pulled the newspaper back and pointed out a few articles of minor interest. Sirius grunted morosely in reply, not listening to a word he said, until one name in particular cropped up.

"I see Lucius Malfoy has made a 'stunning donation' to the Ministry," Lupin grumbled, flicking over a page.

Sirius raised his head a little. "I thought he was in prison?"

"Malfoy?" Lupin asked, glancing at Siriud. "No, he got off on nearly all charges – that was months ago, didn't you know?"

"No," Sirius frowned. "Wasn't he arrested for Death Eater activities?"

Lupin nodded. "But it was…er, it was earlier this year, right around the time that the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts. Dumbledore was furious. He spent weeks helping the Aurors plan and instigate a sudden raid of Malfoy's estate, and they got gallons of evidence that he'd been working for you-know-who for years. But then just the next day, the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts, and in all the fuss afterwards, Malfoy never made it to trial. He claimed the things in his house were planted by the Ministry, that he'd been under the imperius curse, that – well, he made a lot of excuses, and they set him free."

"_What?"_ Sirius gaped. "That black-hearted, slithering son-of-a-bitch?"

Lupin smiled wryly, glad to have Sirius' attention away from thoughts of Harry's plight. He said, "There was a bit of a tussle over the whole thing. Moody wanted to throw Malfoy straight to the dementors, especially after all the work he'd done trying to corner Malfoy, all the evidence they'd collected. Dumbledore agreed – I haven't seen the two of them so united since Moody became Minister. But there were some senior members of the Ministry who felt differently. Barty Crouch, you remember him, he's head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – he insisted Malfoy's excuses were valid," Lupin made a sickened face, "and despite everything Malfoy's done over the years, they just let him go."

"But…why?" Sirius shook his head. "What could Crouch possibly have gained?"

"Money, maybe, though Barty Crouch isn't the sort of man to accept bribes. Information about something, most likely," said Lupin. "But it's a mystery, isn't it? Because if Malfoy gave information about the Death Eaters, which seems like the only sort Crouch would care about, why is he still alive? Why didn't You-Know-Who have him killed the moment he stepped out of the Ministry's custody? Anyway," he finished, taking a sip of the orange juice. "That's all old news. Malfoy's been accused of being a Death Eater a couple more times since then, but he's always wriggled out of it – gold does wonders for the reputation, you know. I don't personally think Malfoy is the killing or torturing type anyway – he probably supports Voldemort mostly in the financial sense."

Sirius pulled the paper back, while Lupin got up to make sure there was no more bacon in the pan, then summoned the box of cereal and poured himself his fourth bowl. He really was hungry, having not eaten since he had left Hogwarts the day before.

"Did you see this?" Sirius said, looking at a small article on the back page. "There's a new head of the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Dolores Umbridge."

Lupin inhaled a large spoonful of cereal and choked, spraying milk and meusli across the table. He coughed violently for several seconds while Sirius conjured a box of tissues and a glass of water.

"Do you know Dolores Umbridge?" he asked curiously.

"Only by reputation," Lupin wheezed, taking a sip of water and coughing again. "What does it say?"

Sirius read through the article. "…experienced member of the Ministry…blah, blah, blah…Umbridge says she plans to put tighter restrictions on the governance of sentient animals such as centaurs, giants and, most especially, werewolves. Oh, I see," he raised his head to look at Lupin, who was glowering at the newspaper as if it had personally instated Dolorus Umbridge into the Ministry.

"She's crazy," he declared vehemently. "Got a grudge against all 'half-breeds', as _she_ calls him. She'll have them putting collars on centaurs and keeping merpeople in glass tanks and…oh, I hope she doesn't find out Rubeus Hagrid has giant blood, she'll have a field day…come to think of it, I hope she _does_ find out," Lupin amended, "because then Dumbledore will give her what's coming to her…"

Sirius had hardly ever heard Lupin speak so resentfully. He looked at the article again. "But I thought Minister Moody had gotten over the whole werewolf issue once they cracked down on Fenrir Greyback's group after the rally in Paris last year?" he asked. "I mean, Moody wouldn't ever go in France's direction and really make life difficult for werewolves, would he?"

Lupin continued to glare at the newspaper. "Maybe Moody wouldn't," he muttered. "But Dolores Umbridge already has in a lot ways. And she's got a lot more where that came from."

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Work was over for the day. Diagon Alley was closing down, the shops pulling screens over their windows and the last trickles of witches and wizards hurrying home before dark, their packages tucked securely under their arms. Sirius wandered away from Gringotts bank, his hands in his pockets and his collar folded up to protect his neck, as a freezing winter wind was rushing down the street, sending battered Ministry leaflets tumbling past his ankles.

He collected his bike from the Leaky Cauldron and wheeled it out onto the street. He was just mounting it when a voice called out from behind him.

"Sirius! Sirius, wait!"

He turned and saw Remus Lupin hastening down the pavement towards him, a much-patched scarf wrapped around his throat and his robes rippling in the wind. Sirius raised his hand to acknowledge him but Lupin did not return the gesture: his face was strained and pale. Before Sirius could ask what was wrong, Lupin jogged up to his side. "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Dolohov's dead! He's been murdered!"

Sirius sucked in a quick breath. No – no, it couldn't be – Dumbledore hadn't questioned him properly yet, they hadn't found out about Harry – no, not now, their only link could not die now.

Lupin was blowing on his hands to keep them warm. He must have walked all the way to the Leaky Cauldron just to bring this news.

"By who?" Sirius growled, trying to keep himself from shouting. A cauldron of lead seemed to have been poured into his stomach.

"A Ministry worker, an Unspeakable, I think…"

"An Unspeakable? From the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes," Lupin nodded feverishly. "I just saw Hestia, she was going to visit Tonks, and she got the news from Kingsley who was coming to take Tonks back to Auror headquarters; she's all patched up. Kingsley said he going to go back to the Ministry right now, they're going to question the man as soon as he wakes up. Kingsley was one of the Aurors that caught the guy. Rookwood, I think his name is…anyway, they think he's a spy for you-know-who. They were transferring Dolohov to a permanent residence in Azkaban tomorrow, and Rookwood broke into his cell in the Ministry and killed him, just like that…the Ministry is in an uproar, Hestia said…Rookwood's been an Unspeakable for about twenty years now, apparently, so if he _is_ Death Eater…and he could have put the Imperius curse on all sorts of people in the Ministry, maybe someone in the Order…"

He was nearly hopping from foot to foot in anxiety. Sirius bent down to start the ignition of the bike, then he looked at Lupin and said firmly. "Get on."

"What?" Lupin looked aghast. "I'm not riding that machine!"

"Fine, I'll go to the Ministry by myself," Sirius replied, raising his voice over the rumble of the motorbike's engine.

"You're not going to the Ministry…!"

"Yes I am," said Sirius, turned to Lupin. "Don't you see? Dolohov is captured; Rookwood kills Dolohov, blowing his cover as a spy – why would You-Know-Who want Dolohov dead that badly? Dolohov must have had information that You-Know-Who had to prevent anyone from knowing. What information could be that vitally important?"

Lupin shook his head in disbelief. "You think Dolohov _did_ know about Harry."

"If he did, I'm going to punch someone, because now we'll never know," Sirius said bitterly. "But maybe _Rookwood_ knows something, and if he does, Dumbledore is going to be there getting it out of him. And I want to be the first to know what Rookwood has to say. Now, come on."

Muttering about helmets and their absence, Lupin swung his leg over the bike behind Sirius. He hadn't ridden this thing since before Harry had been born, and whether or not the bike was in a worse state of repair since then, he did not want to find out the hard way. He called above the roar as Sirius revved the motorbike up. "Where do I hold on?"

"Just grab my jacket," Sirius yelled. "And you better hold tight, we're going _up_."

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They landed with a thud outside the cracked and graffiti-covered telephone booth in the empty, windswept street with its overflowing skip and grubby little pubs. Lupin, who was still shouting in a kind of hysterical babble about Muggles and the statute of secrecy, hurried off the bike and waited for Sirius to lean it carefully against the brick wall beside the telephone booth.

The two of them crammed inside the tiny booth, which would have been a tight fit even if they hadn't both been wearing layers of winter clothes. Sirius was nearest the receiver and he lifted it, and then looked awkwardly at Lupin.

"Er…can you remember the number?"

"I'll do it," Lupin snatched the phone and dialled. After a moment, a cool female voice asked them both to state their name and business.

"Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, visiting Arthur Weasley to congratulate him," Lupin said at once.

"No we're not…"

"Shush, Sirius, they're not going to let us in if you say you're coming to gatecrash an interrogation."

"I'm not! And can't they tell you're lying?"

"I'm not lying, I do want to congratulate Arthur."

"But he didn't even…"

"_Shush!_"

Two silver badges clattered out into the coin tray and the ground began to rise up as they sunk down into the ground. Neither of them spoke over the dull grinding of the booth: Lupin still seemed to be furious about Sirius flying his bike in broad daylight, and Sirius was too pent-up with nerves to even think about making casual conversation. He fumbled to pin the silver badge onto his coat.

At last a sliver of light shone out at their feet and grew taller and taller until Sirius had to turn his face away so his eyes could adjust to the sudden brightness. Then the door of the booth sprang open and they stepped out into the Ministry of Magic.

The peacock-blue ceiling glowed down at them, the golden symbols sliding across its surface in a meaningless dance. The statue of magical brethren, with its five golden figures gleaming in the light from the ceiling, seemed to represent the only smiling faces in the huge room. Most of the people hurrying about were looking glum or distracted. It was evening, so the long hallway they had entered was not crowded, and there were long lines in front of the fireplaces and workers headed home for the night.

Sirius made to walk straight down the hall, but Lupin grabbed his arm. "We have to present our wands for a search. Or do you _want_ to be arrested and thrown in there with Rookwood? – Actually, scratch that, you probably do…"

Grudgingly, Sirius allowed Lupin to lead him over to the desk at their left with a sign over it reading _Security_. They both handed over their wands and the bored-looking man ran a secrecy sensor over their chests and backs, and then waved them onwards.

"We'll have to find someone we know, I can't remember my way around in here," Lupin said, trying to stand on tiptoes to see over the heads of a crowd of witches and wizards who had just come streaming out of the elevator. Sirius, who was considerably taller, scanned the faces of the crowd, searching for anyone familiar.

"Sirius! Remus!" A bright voice cried from a group to their left. Lupin's cheeks flushed instantly pink and Sirius raised his hand and waved furiously at Nymphadora Tonks, who was hurrying towards them. She had a white patch taped her cheek and was limping ever so slightly, but seemed otherwise healthy. Her hair was blonde, short and curly today, but as she got nearer the tips darkened to mousy-brown.

Sirius grabbed her and pulled her into a hug as soon as she got within arm's reach. "It's good to see that you're yourself again."

"Thanks. I assume you've heard about Dolohov?"

At once both of them turned on her. "What has Rookwood said? Have they questioned him? Is he a Death Eater?"

"Yes – yes, he is – they're still down there now, in the cells under the Ministry, they've got all these awful potions and Moody's there and there's a crowd and – I shouldn't be here at all, but when Kingsley said he was going to find out whether they'd gotten Rookwood to talk or not I made him take me too," Tonks was speaking so quickly she sounded like a blur. "But someone noticed me after a while and they kicked me out a few minutes ago. Dumbledore, he just walked in there and they had Rookwood doped up on truth serum and Dumbledore just said, 'What information were you trying to silence when you killed Antonin Dolohov?' And Rookwood's eyes were all rolled back in his head and he said, 'My lord said he had to die. He knew about the Potter boy.'"

Sirius felt a steel hand clutch his heart and twist sharply. Lupin put his hand to his mouth.

Tonks' voice grew higher and more excited, "And then Dumbledore asked, cool as anything, 'Have you seen the boy?' And Rookwood said, 'Many months ago' so Dumbledore asked, 'and where was it you saw him?' And everyone was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop, and the whole crowd is leaning forward, and the Rookwood takes this gulping breath, like he's trying to fight the truth serum but he can't stop himself speaking, and he recites this address…"

"Where?" Sirius found he had grabbed Tonks' arm and was gripping it very hard. He forced himself to relax his hold. "Where was it?"

"I don't know, it's nowhere I've heard of," Tonks shook her head. "But everything is happening now – oh, look!" She pointed behind him. The elevator had opened again and Dumbledore was striding out of it. He was accompanied by Minister Moody, several Ministry workers, and a number of Aurors, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, Emmeline Vance and Sturgis Podmore.

Moody kept glanced shiftily at Dumbledore, and as they passed the fountain of magical brethren, the two of them parted on either side of it. The Aurors all followed Moody, but as Dumbledore headed off alone, several people seemed to materialise out of the crowd. They were all members of the Order: Minerva McGonagall, Dedalus Diggle, and Hestia Jones among them, and Dumbledore bent down a little to speak to them. On the other side of the room, Minister Moody was talking to his circle of Aurors in a similarly wary manner.

Sirius, Lupin and Tonks dashed over to meet them. Dumbledore straightened up. "We have very little time, though Kingsley and Emmeline will try to delay Moody as best they can," he was saying, and then he saw the three newcomers and his gaze hardened. "No – before you even open your mouths – _no_. You will stay here."

"Albus, I'm coming," Lupin stepped forward.

"_No_ Remus, _we are dealing with this_," Dumbledore said sharply, and then he swept his eyes of the rest of the group and said. "Now, quickly."

"Wait!" Sirius tried to grab Hestia, who was nearest, but there was an echoing _crack_ and every one of them disappeared. Tonks turned her head to where Moody and his Aurors were standing on the other side of the room, and had been alerted by the loud crack. A moment later, all the Aurors Disapparated as well.

Sirius made a noise that was half-growl and half-moan. They had gone to find Harry, and left him behind…

"What's going on?" Tonks burst out savagely, spinning around as if hoping to catch someone who could explain to her and nearly hitting Lupin with her crutch. He stepped back hurriedly to avoid the crutch and put his hand to his forehead in a despairing gesture.

"They're trying to get there first," he glanced at the ceiling as if all the erratic behaviour was beginning to make him dizzy. "They both have the same destination but slightly different intentions. Moody is trying to get to Harry before Dumbledore, and Dumbledore is trying to slow Moody down. Whoever reaches Harry first gets to decide…to decide what to do with him…" his voice trailed away.

Sirius balled his fist, and Tonks back away, concerned that he was going to hit the person nearest to him. But through his gritted teeth all he said was, "They should be working together, damn them! They don't even know who, or what, will be protecting Harry. And Dumbledore tells me to stay put…"

Lupin nodded in agreement. He suddenly raised his hand and called, "Arthur! Over here!"

Tonks and Sirius both looked up as Arthur Weasley trotted over. He took one look at their distraught faces and said cautiously. "Dumbledore's gone where Rookwood said, has he? And the Minister too?"

"How do you know all that…?" Lupin began.

Arthur beckoned. "My office is down the corridor from the Auror offices. Come on, you can wait there. We'll be able to see when they return."

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"When I used to run the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department, I had a dreadfully small office, you know," Mr Weasley said jovially as he lead the three of them past the empty cubicles where the sign _Auror Management_ hung. Nobody else was smiling: Lupin had gone pale and kept fiddling with his hair, Sirius was wearing his hostile gorilla expression so that nobody wanted to look at him, and Tonks was looking miserable and having trouble keeping up because of her limp. "Like a broom cupboard, it was. But, then of course, the Ministry was overrun, and Moody took over and rearranged the place. Took them months to rebuild everything that was blown up in the fighting, but I got a new room and a new job."

He stopped outside a door that said, _Defence Research: Muggle Artefact Enchantment_ and opened it, stepping back to allow the others to enter first.

Lupin hated to think how small Arthur's old office had been like. This was one certainly bigger than a broom cupboard, but not by much. A large portion of the space was taken up by an enormous white block that looked like a muggle refrigerator, the other three-quarters was filled by three small squashed desks covered in a huge number of what looked like complete junk. There were alarm clocks, nail clippers, stereo headphones, wind chimes hanging from the ceiling, two marionettes that were tussling fiercely on a pile of blueprints, safety pins, a small pile of origami figures, an electrical razor, a toaster that bleeped faintly, a stick of muggle deodorant that was oozing a luminous blue liquid, and boxes and boxes filled with no end of strange contraptions.

"There's three of us in here, but Gosden and Hay have gone home for the night," Arthur explained as he manoeuvred his way around a wastepaper bin that seemed to be filled with flaming teeth. "We're trying to design new weapons and things for the Ministry, but we're just the muggle artefacts department, the big defence research goes on across the hall way, and in the Department of Mysteries as well, they say – but no one knows for sure, of course," he opened the refrigerator and poked at something inside with his wand. Within were shelves and shelves of objects, around floated a thick white mist.

"What is that?" Tonks asked, pointing at the refrigerator.

"Incubator," Arthur replied, as if this explained everything. Tonks looked as if she wanted to inquire further, but at that moment there was a loud thump as Sirius sat down very heavily on one of the desks, causing the marionettes to roll off onto the floor to continue their wrestling.

Arthur conjured a pot of tea and poured it into four chipped mugs he'd picked up off a filing cabinet in the corner. He tried to make conversation a few times but got nothing but grunts in reply. Lupin sipped continually at his cup and had to keep pouring himself fresh ones, while Sirius was not drinking, just clutching the mug so hard his knuckles were white. Every few minutes, Tonks stuck her head out the door and looked down the corridor to where she could see the Auror cubicles, but each time she returned shaking head.

An hour went past, and then two. Arthur left to send an owl to his wife to tell her he would be home late. Tonks curled up on a chair in the corner and dozed off to sleep, snoring with her head tipped back. Lupin and Sirius simply sat, neither speaking nor looking at each other.

And then they heard voices talking quietly and many footsteps. Lupin raised his head, realised what the voices meant, and jumped to his feet. He rushed out into the corridor, then reached inside to grab Sirius' sleeve and pull him out too. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis Podmore could be seen speaking to each other in one of the cubicles down the hall.

When Kingsley looked up a few moments later to see Sirius and Lupin standing in the doorway to the cubicle, he drooped a little. Sirius was rigid, his face blank, his jaw so tense he couldn't speak. Lupin spoke for him. "Please – what's happened?"

Podmore went to join a number of other Aurors who were talking a little way away. Some of them glanced at Sirius and Lupin but most did not know what they were doing here and so ignored them. Kingsley leaned against his desk.

"Nothing," he said quietly. "There was nothing there. The house was abandoned."

"Abadoned?" said Lupin stupidly.

Kingsley nodded. "The house was just outside of London, it was barely more than a small villa in the midst of a poor muggle neighbourhood. The Aurors and the members of the Order arrived together and went in together – I promise you, we did not try and compete to reach the house first, we stood together – but inside, it was empty. It looks as if it has probably been empty for at least a few months. If the Death Eaters ever used it for anything, they were long gone."

Sirius made a convulsive movement as if to grab the wall of the cubicle for support. Then he whispered hoarsely. "Was there anything? Please – was there any sign…?"

Kingsley nodded. "Yes," he turned and picked up a bundled cloak sitting on his desk. He unrolled the thick material and folded it back. Within lay a ragged piece of wood, about as long was his forearm and as thick as his wrist. Chunks had been gouged out of it, and though it was flattened at one end, the other end was broken and splintered.

"It's the leg off a chair," said Kingsley softly. "Found in one of the back rooms of the house, a room with no windows and a heavy bolt on the door. There were more scratches on the walls and floor, and the remains of the rest of the chair. But mostly importantly," he raised his hand and rolled the chair leg over to expose the other side, "there was this."

Scratched deeply into the soft wood were the letters HP.

Lupin closed his eyes. Sirius stared at the letters, his face still expressionless. His hands were shaking very slightly.

"He was there," said Kingsley. "He was there, and he was alive. But we searched the house for any clue as to where he could have gone, and found nothing. I am sorry."

The chatter of the Aurors down the hall died down. Kingsley began to wrap up the broken chair leg, speaking quickly. "That's the Minister arriving. I should not be seen talking to you, as I am not supposed to be sympathetic to the Order. You should go."

Lupin nodded and stepped out of the cubicle onto the carpeted hallway. Sirius did not follow him: he raised his hand. His voice was not even a whisper as he spoke. "Kingsley – couldn't I – couldn't I have it? It's all the proof I have that he's even alive…"

"I'm sorry," Kingsley shook his head and put the bundled bit of wood back onto his desk. "We will need to hold on to it until the Minister has seen it. Goodbye, Sirius."

Lupin took a hold of Sirius' arm and pulled him out of the cubicle. He came without a struggle. They headed back to Arthur Weasley's office, where Tonks had woken up and was leaning out to look for them, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Arthur himself reappeared from a side corridor and hurried them back into his office.

Tonks and Arthur waited, but it was evident from their faces that they had already gathered that there was no good news.

Lupin tried to give a hopeful smile, but it only looked painful. "The house was abandoned," he shrugged. "I guess…I guess we'll just go home for now. Tomorrow, we'll keep looking."

He felt a wild frustration rush up in him, as if blood had been suddenly pumped through his brain and then was gone. Sirius did not speak.

Nothing. It had all come to nothing. Dolohov was dead and his secrets were dead with him. And now they were back where they had started. Lupin tried not to think about it, and when he thought about it, he tried to deny it, yet the overwhelming truth was that they were no closer to finding Harry than they had been six months ago when he had disappeared.

But far away, in an old house on a hill, Harry Potter was finding his own way out.

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TBC

A/N: I'm sorry it's taken so long, but there will be Harry next chapter. I promise. I promise! Next chapter will be all Harry.


	7. The Boy Within the House

A/N: I truly am sorry this chapter has taken so freakin' long. I'm still not happy with it, but bear with me, it is as much as I can do for now.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to the Harry

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When he next awoke, Harry was back in the bedroom in the top story of the house, his hands bandaged but healed. The bed and carpet had been replaced because both been burned in the fire, as had the curtains which seemed thicker than ever. The wallpaper, however, merely had fresh paper pasted over it. Harry saw to his dismay that his marks on the wall, recording the length of time he had been imprisoned, had been obliterated, and the fresh paper was too new to be scratched. He took the toothbrush and started marking the days in a different part of the wall, where the old paper was still showing. He scraped two circles to represent the two full moons, then another mark to show he had been brought one meal since then. Then he sat back and began to plan.

He felt as if the fire had burned away some part of him, some timidity that had made him quiet and well behaved in order to avoid trouble. He no longer felt hopeful that Sirius was coming for him, which troubled him a little, but he brushed it out of his mind. He had gained two knew pieces of vital knowledge to focus on.

Wormtail had been revealed to him: knowing the man's name, and what he had done, gave Harry a sense of power over his guard. Wormtail's weakness had also been revealed: Harry had to be cared for, and kept healthy. Not just alive - _healthy_. There were a myriad of ways this weakness could be exploited.

Harry was also excited by the magic he had performed, but he did not let himself get worked up about it. Wandless magic, he knew, was both difficult and dangerous. He remembered one time when he had been seven years old, and a boy had been teasing him about his scars, and Harry had felt himself getting angrier and angrier, until suddenly the boy's feet had sunk right through the concrete path he was standing on and he had become stuck. It had taken the fire department and several chisels to free the boy. Sirius had had to take Harry aside and explain to him that sometimes magic happened by accident, but he had to be careful, because muggles weren't ever allowed to see it. As far as Harry knew, he had never unintentionally done magic again, until now.

The conjuring of flames, however, had happened because he was angry. He knew he couldn't reproduce that rage deliberately. He would have to trick Wormtail into provoking him if he wanted to try setting fire to the house again. But perhaps there were other things he could do, without the necessity for anger.

He would have to experiment. In the meantime, Harry planned to test Wormtail to his limits.

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Educated by his last encounter with Harry, Wormtail did not come into his room to bring the boy his next meal, but placed it quietly outside the door and shuffled back downstairs, feeling pleased with himself that he had avoided another fight. He returned with a next meal a few hours later, and was surprised to see the previous tray still sitting outside the door, the soup stone cold but completely untouched.

Wondering whether the boy had been stupid enough not to find the food, Wormtail knocked meekly on the door and entered the room. Harry had pulled the bedside cabinet across the room so that he could sit beside the covered window, as if enjoying the non-existent sunlight. He was reading, as always, and did not look up as the door opened.

"There's food for you," Wormtail said, putting the tray down on the floor. He kept the door behind him open, ready to bolt if Harry tried to attack him again. But the boy did not even look away from his book.

"I know," Harry replied airily, turning to a new page. Wormtail took this to be a dismissal and, rubbing his bald patch, he backed out the door.

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When he came back with breakfast the next morning, he opened the door and the first thing he saw was two untouched trays of food sitting outside the bedroom door. Wormtail gave such a start he nearly dropped the breakfast tray. He suddenly realised what the boy was playing at and, with panic clutching at his chest, he threw open the door.

Harry was still in bed, and he sat up, reaching for his glasses to look at Wormtail, who was standing in the doorway, the breakfast tray still in his hands in a perfect impression of a butler bringing his master breakfast in bed.

"What is it?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You're n-not eating!" Wormtail cried in a shuddering voice.

Harry stared at him, and finally answered. "Caught on at last, have you?"

"You have to eat!" the short man put the tray on the ground and stepped further into the room, tugging at the fraying collar of his robes. "You _must_ eat!"

Harry shook his head. "I _must_ do nothing. And I _shall_ do nothing," he rolled onto his side and pulled the mouldering blankets up to his chin.

Wormtail gave a kind of terrified whimper. He glanced from side to side as if searching for a quick exit and, finding none, stumbled up to the end of the bed where he stood, wringing his hands and staring at Harry, who was pretending to have fallen asleep again.

"Y-you're not giving me any choice," Wormtail declared finally. And then he withdrew his wand from inside his robes. Harry opened his eyes a crack, saw the wand, and had a moment to panic at the thought of the curse Wormtail had cast on him during their last fight. Then Wormtail said firmly, _"Imperio!_" and Harry forgot about trivial matters such as thinking.

He felt wonderfully blissful, floating through a smothering pool of ignorance. When the soft voice commanded him to stand up and walk across the room, he did so without hesitation.

_Eat_, said the soft voice. There was a tray on the floor in front of him and Harry bent down to pick it up.

_Hang on_, another voice echoed out of the back of his skull. _Why are you doing that?_

_Eat!_ The soft voice ordered, more firmly this time.

_Wasn't there some reason not to?_ The second voice wondered. Harry did not know what the second voice was talking about, but it made him pause, bent over as if trying to touch his toes. _Let's just think about this for a moment,_ the second voice grumbled, _you had a good reason for not eating…_

_Do as I say! P-pick up the tray a-and eat!_ The first voice said, no longer soft, but loud and stumbling.

_I will NOT!_ The second voice retorted.

Harry straightened up with a snap, overbalanced and fell backwards. He just managed to grab the post of the bed to keep himself from toppling right over. The floating sensation vanished. He was back in the dark, stifling bedroom, clutching the bedpost and gasping. Wormtail was still pointing his wand at Harry, but his face was aghast.

"H-how did you fight it?" he whimpered, more to himself than to Harry. He shook himself. "I won't have this! You h-have to obey me! _Crucio!_"

Harry did not scream this time, nor did he feel himself hit the floor. There was only the endless, white-hot pain that was burning him to ashes, there was only pain…

Then it was gone. Harry realised he was lying facedown on the threadbare carpet, his glasses askew. His muscles trembling and his empty stomach cartwheeling, he sat up, leaning against the bed for support.

"I'll k-keep at it until you eat," Wormtail said from somewhere above his head. He pointed his wand at Harry again and opened his mouth.

Harry looked up at him, feeling his neck spasm in the after effects of the curse. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said huskily. "You're going to make me very ill before too long."

Wormtail's mouth hung open, but he did not speak. He jabbed his wand pointlessly at the air. Harry pulled himself to his feet, his legs as weak as jelly. He did not think he could stand that curse again – if Wormtail saw through his bluff and continued torturing him, Harry knew he would give in.

But Wormtail gave a sort of miserable moan and withdrew his hands towards his chest. His eyes darted from the serene tray of breakfast on the floor to Harry, pale and panting, leaning against the bed with an ice-cold gaze.

"Y-you'll get hungry!" Wormtail said weakly, backing away as if afraid to take his eyes of Harry. He fumbled for the door handle and fled, the tail of his robe whipping around the corner and out of sight.

Harry slumped and let himself fall down onto the bed. Every part of him ached, and his head was muggy and thick from the curses Wormtail had cast on him. But through his soreness, Harry felt a sharp stab of triumph pierce his brain. He had done it. He had overpowered Wormtail.

And he knew, now, that _Wormtail could not control him_. Not by threats, not by curses, not by demands – _Wormtail could not make Harry obey him!_ This certitude elated Harry. He got up and put the tray of breakfast outside the door, next to the other meal Wormtail had brought him. He would have to keep up his hunger strike for a while yet.

Because if Harry would not obey Wormtail, there was every chance that Wormtail might yet obey Harry.

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Eight days passed without Harry touching a bite of food. He drank copious amounts of water to try and quell his hunger, but it did not help. It felt as if his stomach had shrunken to the size of a walnut, and sucked all his other internal organs in with it. Wormtail continued to leave meals outside the door, hoping to tempt Harry, and several times nearly succeeding as the length of time since Harry had last eaten grew longer and longer.

Wormtail thought that Harry would not be able to keep it up, and Harry was determined to prove him wrong. He had experience when it came to a stubborn battle of wills – living with Sirius had ensured plenty of chances to practise. He was sure that sooner or later, Wormtail's fears about his prisoner's wellbeing would override everything else.

Harry had spent the first few days fiddling with the new curtains, but they were no more yielding than the ones that had gone up in flames. After a while, as exhaustion from lack of food began to overcome him, he had to content himself with lying in bed and reading, because just walking across the room made him feel faint.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up. He knew that theoretically it was possible to survive for weeks and weeks without food, and he had heard of hunger strikes where people had refused to eat for thirty days or more. But it had been only a little more than a week now and already his stomach was begging him to give in. There were so many times when he was tempted to just eat whatever was on the tray outside that he wished he could lock to door.

But then he thought about being a prisoner in this bedroom for the rest of his life and the hunger pangs in his belly receded.

It was on the ninth day that Wormtail finally came up the stairs and entered the bedroom.

Harry had heard his footsteps on the stairs and was sitting on the end of the bed, waiting for him. Wormtail came into the room and glared at him, wheezing a little. The expression on his face was that of one betrayed, as if he felt Harry was being cruel. He said miserably, "Why are you d-doing this? Are you g-going to starve yourself?"

"If it comes to that," said Harry evenly. He had no intention of killing himself – in fact, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind: after all, for a child, any life is better than no life at all.

Wormtail gave a terrified shudder. "My m-master doesn't know yet – but when h-he does, he'll sort you out…don't see if he doesn't…"

Harry shook his head. "And what will he do to _you_?" he asked.

The effect this had on Wormtail was revolting to watch. He seemed to shrink a little, cowering with his back to the door, beads of sweat forming on his brow at the thought of his Master. He whined, "You d-don't understand! If you don't eat…he'll…he might kill me…he'll give you a new guard, someone worse…it's better for both of us…if you'd only…what is it you _want?_" he sobbed at last.

Harry's heart thumped faster. This was what he had hoped for: that Wormtail would stoop to bargaining with him. Trying to keep his voice steady so as not to betray his excitement, he said, "I want to be able to open all the curtains in the house. I want to be able to go downstairs whenever I want. I don't want to eat any more of the slop you call food. I want new clothes, and hot water, and towels. I want a clock to tell time and a calender on my wall. I want to be able to go outside and walk around. Once I have all those things, I'll stop starving myself."

Wormtail gave a timid moan of protest. "I-impossible," he muttered. "I'm never allowed…I can't even…don't be foolish…"

"Then go away and stop bothering me," Harry replied, turning back towards the bed.

For a few moments there was silence, and Harry could hear Wormtail panting quietly. Then the man's shaking voice spoke.

"I can't open the curtains," he said. "I don't know how. And I can't let you leave the h-house, I don't know what sort of wards and things are set on the doors. But the rest of your r-requests…if you promise not to starve yourself any longer…I could a-arrange them…"

Harry looked back at him. Wormtail was wringing his hands, a look of desperation on his face. Was he telling the truth about the curtains? And would he keep his promises, or would Harry have to stop eating again before Wormtail learned his lesson? What would Wormtail's master do if he found out Harry's manipulation?

Slowly, Harry nodded his agreement to Wormtail. Better to start small, if he was going get the things he wanted out of his guard. And besides all that, Harry really was very hungry.

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The cavernous kitchen was stiflingly warm, lit only by the small gas lamps that were perched on the shelves and the wooden benches that ran around the side of the kitchen. A large fireplace was set into the wall, but the grate was empty and cold. A grimy white stove squatted across the room, which appeared to be electrical but was actually powered by magic. On top of the stove was a large steel pot with a plastic handle, and the pot was beginning to bubble over.

As the hissing and spluttering grew louder, a black-haired boy appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and hurried over to the stove. He lifted the lid and the bubbling subsided as steam rolled out, fogging up the boy's owl-eyed glasses. He wiped his sleeve across the lenses to clear his vision and picked up a wooden spoon from the bench in order to poke curiously at the potatoes simmering in the boiling water. Satisfied that they were ready, he took the pot off the stove and began to drain the potatoes in the sink.

Two months had passed since Harry had convinced Wormtail to give him free reign of the house, and he had managed a great number of things since then. His continued refusal to eat anything that Wormtail had cooked meant that Harry now made all of his own meals. He found he rather enjoyed cooking, if only because it gave him something to do, but the main reason he had insisted on being allowed to use the kitchen was nothing to do with the food.

In order to provide all the vegetables, fruit, meat, spices and cereals that Harry demanded, Wormtail was forced to leave the house at least once a week to go and buy them all. Much as it amused Harry to think up more and more unusual ingredients for Wormtail to fetch, the practical side of the matter was that the two or three hours while his guard was out of the house gave him a short space in which he was completely alone.

He put these brief hours to use as best he could.

The barrier on the stairs had not been removed permanently, and was replaced each evening so that Harry was locked in the uppermost storey of the house. Harry had still not been able to discover how Wormtail removed the barrier instantly, especially since he did not seem to use his wand, but he had learned more about the invisible barrier than Wormtail could have suspected.

Although he had not managed to conjure flames or anything else as impressive, Harry had not given up his hope that he could perform magic without needing a wand. He had stayed up late on many nights, sitting at the top of the stairs and testing the barrier. From lessons on transfiguration from Lupin, he had learned that an object made completely out of magic was always more unstable than an object which had simply been enchanted with magic – and so he was sure that the first step towards opening the curtains was to figure out a way to remove the barrier over the stairs.

It had taken almost a fortnight before he had had his first success. It had been almost an accident – he had been picking at the corner of the barrier, testing how close he could get before the barrier flashed purple and exuded its pushing force. Sleep had been close to overcoming him, his mind wandering, when suddenly he felt a sort of snap on the edge of the barrier and his forefinger went right through to the other side.

His weariness vanished at once. Somehow – and he had no idea how – he had managed to make a hole. He fiddled with the barrier for the rest of the night, but did not manage to get any further.

It took two more days to reproduce the effect. He found that if he let his mind doze a little, feeling for the very edge of the barrier with the tips of his fingers, he could feel the links where the barrier was attached to the top of the stair. They were like magical stiches, and once he had found them, Harry found it was not that difficult to unpick them.

The problem was that it took time. He had to go slowly, otherwise the barrier gave its purple flash and instantly all his work was undone. But he practised nightly, and soon found that in less than an hour he could create a hole large enough for him to crawl under and down onto the stairs.

Now he could explore the house at night – not that there was any true day and night when sunlight never penetrated the windows – but he could wander while Wormtail was asleep. He had found the room where his guard slept, burning with the hope of stealing Wormtail's wand, but it was locked, and Harry had not yet figured out how to pick a lock without magic, though he had tried several times. He cursed himself for not learning when he had the chance, since Sirius had regularly offered to teach Harry the skill.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ever-bothersome curtains. They were attached to the windowsills with some kind of charm that was much more powerful than the one that glued the barrier to the stairwell. It took Harry another month and a half to even begin learning how to unpick the magic that kept the curtains closed. But his success with the stairway-barrier and the thought of sunlight fuelled his determination and his patience.

Steam billowed off the potatoes as Harry tipped them onto his plate. He ate quickly and left the bowl half-empty on the table. Wormtail could have the rest if he wanted. Not for the first time, Harry wondered what his twitchy little guard ate when he couldn't have Harry's leftovers.

He passed Wormtail in the hall, but for all the notice he gave the man, he might not have even seen him. Wormtail just flinched away as Harry passed.

Harry stomped up the three flights of stairs until he reached the top storey of the house, then he went into his bedroom and shut the door. Outside, he heard Wormtail's footsteps on the stairs and the buzzing crackle that signalled the barrier had been drawn back over the stairwell. He waited until he was sure Wormtail had gone back downstairs before he set to work on the curtains.

Slowly, patiently, he plucked at the corners of the heavy material, feeling the magical binding gradually give way under his fingers. Two hours later he had finally stripped the magic from all around the windowsill, and his heart was racing now. He was so close. Carefully he began to unpick the magic that joined the two curtains together. A sliver of cold silver light peeped between Harry's fingers.

Finally, the last of the stitches fell away and Harry could restrain himself no longer. He grasped both curtains and ripped them apart, nearly crying out as light flooded into the bedroom.

It was night, a clear, cloudless night filled with pinpricks of stars. The moon had not risen yet, but there was enough light for Harry, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the house, to see well enough. A serene landscape was spread out before him, a rolling silvered countryside with dark shadowed valleys and rising hills topped but clusters of trees. Harry was looking across a carefully manicured garden, the shaved lawns and cultured chrysanthemum flowers that were drained of colour in the dim starlight. Beyond the garden, a high stone wall snaked away in either direction, curling around the house in order to encircle it.

It was the first time he had seen the outside world for over four and a half months. Harry felt his spine shiver, his legs weaken, and he knelt and rested his elbows on the low windowsill, unable to tear his eyes away. He knelt there until his knees were numb from cold, gazing at the frozen landscape. At last a thin fingernail-sliver of moon began to rise on the edge of the horizon, warning Harry of the coming dawn.

He realised he had been kneeling at the window all night. Reluctantly he pushed himself to his feet and slowly drew the curtains over the landscape, then, exhaustion catching up on him, he stumbled over to the bed and fell straight to sleep.

----------------------------------

When Harry awoke, it took a moment before he remembered what he had done. He sprung to his feet and scurried to the window. He tore back the curtains.

Morning sunlight swamped the room. It was so bright Harry had to turn away and cover his eyes for a few moments. The sunlight seemed to sting his skin as he approached the window again, lowering his hands as slowly as he dared. He had to squint until his eyes, so unused to the brightness, stopped watering and he could look out across the garden.

The colours dazzled him. Being locked in the dark house, colour was a rarity. Harry felt stunned as he drank in the beautiful sight. The sky was a clear winter blue, and in the distance, Harry thought he could see smoke rising in plumes from the valley. There must be a village beyond the wall. He looked down at the rose bushes, bushels of green leaves though there were as yet no blooms, and saw the old man.

He blinked. There was an old man bent over the roses, staking them up in anticipation of the coming snow. He wore dusty brown clothes and the sun was beaming down on his gangly neck. A faded blue cap to shade his face covered his head.

As Harry watched, the old man straightened up, rolling his shoulders stiffly, and looked up at the window. Harry froze as their eyes met. The man had seen him; there was no doubt about that. Now he was watching Harry with a mildly surprised look on his face.

Seconds passed, and Harry was afraid to move an inch. Then suddenly the man looked away and bent over his roses again. Harry stepped back and pulled the curtains over the window again before he fled to the bed and dropped down onto it, shaking.

If the man was working for the Death Eaters, he would be sure to reveal that Harry had figured out how to unpick the enchantment on the curtains. And then…Harry didn't know what would happen then…

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But the old man didn't tell anyone about the boy, at least, not at first. Harry saw him several times over the next month, pottering about the garden. He waved to Harry once, and Harry waved back. But not two days later, Harry awoke to find that the curtains in his room had been enchanted again, and would not open, no matter how he picked at them. He was trapped once more in the darkness and the loneliness of the house, but he had seen sunlight for a short time, and the memory of that sunlight kept him from despairing.

It was hard not to despair. It had been nearly half a year since Harry had last seen a friendly face. Five full moons had waxed and waned, though the Wolfsbane potion made the transformations easy for him. But they reminded him of his godfather, somewhere out in the world, and where thoughts of Sirius had once filled him with hope, now they made him feel ill and abandoned. All his life, Sirius had been able to solve every problem, and defeat every obstacle – yet it had been nearly six months, and he had not rescued Harry. Surely Sirius had no given up on him? And yet – surely Sirius should have found him by _now_?

Snow was falling outside the house, though Harry didn't know it. The air was very cold in the empty halls, and he demanded that Wormtail fetch him a jacket and warmer trousers, and of course, Wormtail obeyed. Harry realised he no longer thought of the nervous, balding man as his guard – Wormtail was no guard. He had become Harry's servant.

Harry was no longer even a little bit afraid of Wormtail, and he had become sure that Wormtail had lied when he had said he did not know how to open the curtains. He was determined to test this theory, and it was after Christmas had passed without notice that Harry hit upon the way to do it.

He knew that Wormtail was very paranoid about fire, since the curtain-burning incident all those months before. Harry had tried to light fires whenever he could, but had failed dismally – he had never managed to reproduce the magic he had done that first time. However, after a while it occurred to him that if all that mattered was to send Wormtail into a panic, there was no need for fire, only smoke.

Making smoke was easy, once the idea had occurred to him. There were plenty of ingredients for baking in the house, so Harry prepared a batch of biscuits, put them in the oven, then left them. There was a window in the front of the oven through which he watched them eagerly, but before long nothing could be seen as the biscuits burned blacker and blacker. Harry waited until Wormtail was just passing the door to the kitchen, then he pulled open the door to the oven and began to shout, _"Fire!_" at the top of his lungs.

Smoke poured out of the oven, thin, choking smoke that smelled of melted sugar. As he had hoped, Wormtail scrambled into the room, waving his wand in front of his face.

"Get out! Out!" Wormtail shouted at Harry, and Harry slipped out, coughing, his eyes watering from the smoke, and shutting the door behind him, but leaving a little crack through which to watch. He didn't expect much to happen, but he wanted to know how Wormtail would react.

As it was, he got more than he could have wished for. Wormtail, half-blinded by the smoke, had blundered over to the bench, ripped back the curtains with a whispered word, and thrown open the window. Harry had to put his hand to his mouth to keep himself from gasping. He could run in now, push Wormtail away, jump out the window and be gone before the man even knew what had happened…

But that would be too reckless. Wormtail had a wand. He could easily stun Harry before he got near the window. Even if Harry managed to get outside, there were sure to be other barriers around the house. His only chance to escape would be at night, when he had time and the cover of darkness to escape.

How could he make sure that Wormtail left the window open until then?

Charged by desperation, Harry ran back into the hall beside the kitchen. There was a huge cabinet at the far end, beside the stairwell, a glass-fronted cabinet covered in mildew and filled with ornaments belonging to some previous owner. The front was covered in meaningless patterns drawn in the dust by Harry as he had wandered the halls.

Seized by the desire to do anything that might distract Wormtail, Harry grasped the cabinet and heaved it as hard as he could. It scraped away from the wall and swayed a little. Harry took a firmer grip, tendons bulging in his wrists, feet set apart, and pulled the cabinet with all his strength. For a moment, it didn't seem to have any effect; then with a tired creak, as if it had been wishing someone would put it out of its misery for years now, the cabinet leaned forwards and fell.

He just managed to leap backwards as what seemed like half a tonne of wood and glass toppled down upon him, smashed into the opposite wall and collapsed in on itself. Splintered panelling cracked and shot towards Harry, who threw his arm across his face as with a dying scream the glass shattered and spilled onto the floor.

The noise had been enough to wake the dead – certainly it was enough to get Wormtail's attention. Harry was sitting on the stairs with his knees drawn up when Wormtail pelted down the hall a moment later. He gaped at the smashed cabinet and then turned slowly to look at Harry, who stared back as if daring him to make an accusation.

Wormtail gave a choking noise and said. "I don't know…what you're to…but you had better get out of my sight…"

Harry had never heard the man make any sort of threat before. Nor had he ever seen Wormtail angry, but there was something very akin to anger in the man's eyes as he put one foot on the bottom stair. Harry scrambled upright and hurried up to his bedroom, glancing over his shoulder at Wormtail, who was still clutching his wand, smoke drifting lazily out of the kitchen behind him.

He shut the door of his room and listened, and a few moments later heard the familiar buzz of the barrier being drawn over the stairwell.

-------------------------------------------

Harry wanted to leave as soon as he judged that Wormtail must have gone to bed, but he forced himself to wait for another two hours before he slipped out of his bedroom and began to unpick the barrier over the stairs. He was wearing all his warm clothes but carrying no belongings – there was nothing in the house that meant anything to him. Even working as quickly as he could, it took him another hour to undo the barrier and creep down the stairs into the kitchen. He noticed that most of the cabinet had disappeared, presumably vanished by some spell, but specks of glass shone in the cracks of the floorboards as he passed.

The kitchen was pitch black, and Harry cursed himself for not thinking to bring one of the magical lamps spread throughout the house. He knew there was a lamp somewhere in the kitchen but he couldn't find it in the dark. He felt his way over to the window and reached out to take a hold of the heavy curtains.

The charm that glued them to the windowsill was a shabby job; Wormtail must have enchanted them himself, and hurriedly. Harry unpicked it in only a few minutes and drew back the curtains. A heavy gibbous moon illuminated the ground outside in silver and etched each flower bed in deep shadows. Harry had never seen the grounds from this perspective, but he did not take a moment to appreciate it.

His hands found the metal catch that held the window shut. His own window upstairs was layered with spells to keep it closed: but he had seen Wormtail open this one. _Please_, he whispered to himself, _please…let him have slipped up…let it be open…_ he fumbled with the catch, his hands shaking.

And then the window swung away from him and Harry felt cold night air blow across his face.

For a moment he couldn't believe it. He stood, the window swinging a little in the breeze, breathing in the smell of frost and evergreen leaves. Then, his heart pounding in his chest, Harry climbed up onto the kitchen bench, swung his legs out the window and dropped down onto the gravel path on the other side.

The gravel crunched under his feet and he froze because the sound was so loud in his ears. Then he relaxed and pushed the window shut. It swung open again a moment later, but he was already gone by then.

He raced across the fresh-cut lawns, marvelling the energy he suddenly felt, under the moonlight. He was outside, alone, alive…it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. He turned his head and looked back the house that had been his prison for the past six months. Seeing it from the outside was strange. It looked smaller than he had imagined.

He made his way across the gardens, under the bare-branched trees that lined the front drive, towards the tall stone wall that he knew must encircle the entire estate. He could see it was a newly built wall, about twice his height, and even from a distance he could tell it was very smooth. An iron-barred gate was at the end of the drive, and in only a few minutes Harry was standing before it, looking up at the formidable black spikes that topped the gate. A heavy chain held the gate shut, and the links of the chain were looped through a huge padlock as least as big as Harry's fist.

He thought the gate did not look too difficult to climb, but he was hesitant to try. A mere physical barrier could not be all that stood between him and freedom; there must be some magical element to this gate. Perhaps it was enchanted to recognise him when he touched it, and would sound an alarm that would bring Death Eaters down on the house in an instant. Or perhaps it had a spell that would stun anyone who came in contact with it, and Wormtail would find his unconscious body lying on the gravel the next morning.

Harry picked up a stick and tentatively touched one of the bars. The gate exuded no response, but this didn't prove anything. It might be trained to recognise a human touch. He paced up an down, the exuberance of his freedom beginning to wear off as he debated what to do. At last, the only course of action he could see was to take a gamble and try and climb over the gate. Whatever happened – well, at the worst, he would be caught and taken back to the house, but it was not as if that would leave him worse off than when he had begun.

Harry stepped forward and took a hold of the bars.

Weakness flood through him. At once his knees buckled and he slid to the ground, unable to support himself even kneeling. His head lolled as his neck became suddenly too feeble to hold it up and even his eyelids drooped as if they did not have the energy to stay open. Only his hands, still gripping the iron bars, did not lose their strength. Harry's head spun as his heart began to slow, and with a jolt of fear he managed to open his fingers and let go of the bars.

He slid back and lay on the gravel for a moment, the blood thudding in his ears. The weakness that had overcome him was gone: he could move again. He sat up and stared at the bars of the gate, innocently shining in the moonlight. So, climbing over there was not going to be possible. That was a very powerful enchantment.

Harry stood up, careful not to touch any part of the gate. He warily scooted away from it and walked across the drive until he reached the stone wall. He inspected the wall for a few minutes, but like the gate, it did not betray any outward sign of magic. The stones that made it up were fitted so carefully together that the cracks between them were almost invisible, making the wall very smooth, without any real handholds, and it towered above the small boy, casting its shadow over him.

Still, nothing was unclimbable. Harry saw a stone jutting a little way out from its fellows and put his hand on it.

This time he let go immediately, putting out one hand to catch himself as he fell. Again, the overwhelming weakness flooded through his body until he broke contact with the wall, leaving him gasping from the intensity of it.

Climbing the wall was going to be impossible.

Harry was beginning to feel the first flutters of panic, now. He had been so sure that breaking out of his prison would be a simple thing once he had escaped the house. He had expected more barriers such as the one of the stairwell, but the enchantment on the gate and wall was completely different.

He broke into a swift jog, running parallel to the wall, looking for a tree or some other structure that might help him climb over the wall. It took about twenty minutes before he found himself back at the gate without any improvement to his situation. All the trees near the wall had been cleared, and there were not even any large stones or hedges that would be of any use. He was trapped as completely as an animal in a cage.

Despair welled up in Harry. The moon was setting, now, and he guessed it would only be an hour before dawn and from there, it would not be long before Wormtail discovered he was missing. The only thing he had discovered from his circuit of the wall was the stout little cottage close to it, which he guessed must be the home of the old man he had seen from the bedroom window.

The old man was his last chance: perhaps he had a key to the gate. He didn't look like a wizard, but a Muggle, so surely he would not be in league with the Death Eaters. He could call the Muggle police…no, no the police would be no good against Death Eaters, and besides, Harry suspected the Death Eaters would have spies among the Muggle police.

Harry thought all this as he made his way back through the garden to the icy-covered cottage. There were no lights in any of the windows, but the old man was probably just sleeping. Harry went around to the door and knocked as softly as he could, afraid to make too much noise when he knew that Wormtail was in the big house right behind him. But after several minutes with still no answer, Harry knocked again, harder this time, and then harder still. Yet no one stirred in the cottage.

Perhaps no one was home after all. Harry rubbed his cheeks to try and warm them. He was very cold, now, and his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. But the old man had to be home, he just had to, he was the only one who could help. Harry knocked a fourth time, and waited, tucking his hands into his armpits. And still there was no answer.

Frank Bryce, the old gardener in the cottage, was home and in bed that night, but Frank was also very deaf and a heavy sleeper, and had no idea anyone was standing on his doorstep, desperate to be let inside. If Harry had thrown a rock through his window, he might have woken then, but this did not occur to Harry at the time, and anyway, Frank would not have been endeared to any strange boy who smashed his windows in the early hours of the morning and might have been rather reluctant to help at all.

Outside the cottage, Harry was on the very verge of panic. Frustration that he should at last have gotten outside only to be thwarted on the brink of freedom was making him lose track of his good sense. He knew that he had no choice now but to go back into the house and try to cover up his near-escape, but to return to his prison without having made any advance seemed impossibly unfair.

Then he saw a spade leaning against the wall beside the door. He lifted it, feeling the weight of the metal head. It would make a good weapon. Perhaps he could wait for Wormtail to come out of the house, then…one good whack in the face…he could take Wormtail's wand, open the gate or force Wormtail to open it for him…

Yes. Wormtail was a wreck without his wand; he would quickly give in and reveal how to open the gate. Harry started across the garden, already plotting where he would lay his ambush.

And then he heard voices floating across the lawn, coming from the door of the house. He raised his head and suddenly recognised the voice, though he had not heard it for many months. A cold, high voice that seemed to cut through him and freeze him where he stood. The voice sounded angry, and Wormtail's whimpering rose and fell beneath it, as the front door of the house opened.

_He_ was here. Voldemort.

It was no good. Harry could not fight against the Dark Lord with nothing but his wits and a garden spade. And he could see the figures in the doorway, now, Wormtail ahead, hunched over and sobbing as he lead the way. And behind him, a dark shape and a pair of red eyes glinting in the darkness…

Harry knelt and laid the spade down beside the flowerbed. His eyes were watching Wormtail and the dark figure step out onto the gravel drive, but his hand was feeling for the dirt of the flowerbed, and without looking to check he scraped the words HELP ME into the dark, rich earth. Then he stood up and began to run.

He made it about fifty metres when they spotted him. A voice cried out from behind him, and he heard the sizzle of a spell rushing through the air, then something struck him in the back and he knew no more.

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TBC

A/N: Yes, I know it isn't the best chapter I have written, nor the shortest, nor the most eloquent. Harry just doesn't like being written, I think…he's making my head hurt. I'll focus on thanking all you little darlings to soothe him:

Thank you:

Elle's Bells 88, marthamobley, CrimsonReality, Phyre's child13, EsScaper, smidge, IritIlan, Cruciatus88, LittleCrazy1, sephiroth's sword, illachi, hermione1208, tashc, SBR.

I love you guys.

On a completely unrelated note, I saw Narnia last week and (to my surprise) loved it. Or rather, I fell head-over-heels in love with Mr Tumnus. I recommend going just for him.

Cheers!

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	8. Rumours of Remus

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"I don't really care whether Dumbledore's looking for Harry or not," Ron snapped. "Because even if he is, he obviously hasn't done a very good job, has he?"

"Oh, _Ron_," Hermione said in exasperation. "I'm not saying we should sit around and do _nothing_. I'm just saying that if we're going to bother someone about, it shouldn't be Professor Lupin. He's obviously very upset about the whole thing…"

"…Which was a good seven months ago!" Ron interjected. "The man's not made of _glass_, Hermione! What's he gonna do…faint at the sound of Harry's name?"

Hermione glared at Ron as she hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder. " I just don't know, Ron. You remember what he was like after the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts and Harry disappeared. Even when he came back from sick leave, he looked so…strained. I think Harry must have been very close to him. Do we really want to bring all that up again?"

"Honestly, Hermione, I never thought I'd see the day when you were _afraid_ to ask a teacher something," Ron said.

Hermione wrinkled her nose disdainfully. She paused for a moment as curiosity and tactfulness fought a fierce inner battle: but curiosity obviously won out, because after a moment she said reluctantly. "Well…alright. But not in front of the whole class. We'll just hang back at the end of the lesson and ask him if he's heard anything about Harry yet."

"Got it," Ron replied as they reached the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He pushed the door open and froze on the threshold. The rest of the class had already arrived and her putting their bags down, glancing at each other inquisitively.

The person standing at the front of the classroom was not Professor Lupin: it was a young witch with thick black hair and rosy cheeks.

"Hey, now what's going on?" Ron asked as he and Hermione took their seats. Professor Lupin was well known for his frequent sick leaves, but he'd taken a day off only the week before, and usually they were limited to about one a month.

The rest of the class clearly had the same question: a few people were whispering to each other. It was not so much that Lupin was missing – he did that often enough – but usually Professor Snape would relieve classes for him. What was this woman doing here?

The witch took a breath before she spoke: she looked as if she was having great difficulty covering up her nervousness. But her voice was bright and commanding when she opened her mouth and said, "Good afternoon!" She waited a moment for the class to grow quiet, then continued, "My name is Professor Jones. I'm – er – I'm going to be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for the rest of the year."

"The rest of the _year?_" Dean Thomas cried in an outraged voice. Disgruntled muttering broke out across the classroom. Ron looked at Hermione, his mouth open in shock, as if hoping she was provide an explanation, but Hermione was looking just as surprised.

"What's happened to Professor Lupin?" Ron called before she could speak again, and he sounded more than a little hostile.

"I don't know," said Professor Jones, turning her gaze on Ron. "I really don't, I'm afraid. Dumbledore…I mean, the Headmaster sent me a letter on Saturday asking if I wanted the job, and I said, sure."

"Just like that?" Pavarti asked curiously.

"Didn't he say where Lupin's gone?" Dean added.

"But are you _qualified_?" Hermione asked in a panicky voice.

Professor Jones's chest swelled indignantly. "I should think so, Miss…er…"

"Hermione Granger," Hermione said.

"Miss Granger. I was an Auror for nearly ten years. I think that makes me qualified to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts!"

Hermione nodded and leaned towards Ron, whispering out of the corner of her mouth. "I _thought_ I recognised her. She was in the hospital wing with us – remember? At the start of the year?"

"Oh, yeah," Ron nodded, recognition dawning on her face.

They spent the rest of the period listening intently to Professor Jones's story about an adventure she had had working in Romania. Lavender brown gave a faint scream when it got to the bit about the dragon-poachers, and everyone laughed uproariously as she described Edgar Bones Apparating on top of the muggle coffin being carried down the street. It was only when Hermione cleared her throat loudly at the end of the lesson that Professor Jones jumped to attention, looking at the clock.

"Good grief, is that the time? You better get going, or you'll all be expelled for tardiness. See you tomorrow! Or do I not have you tomorrow?" She began shuffling through the papers spread across her desk, looking for her timetable, while the class got to its feet and began to file out of the classroom, talking animatedly.

Hermione, however, grabbed Ron's arm and pulled him in the opposite direction, towards Professor Jones. Ron frowned, "Hey wha…?" but she squeezed his arm to tell him to be quiet.

"Professor Jones, there's something we wanted to ask you," Hermione said sweetly as the black-haired witch looked up to find them still standing there. "We were going to ask Professor Lupin, but since he's not here, we were hoping you could tell us."

"Well, I'll try," said Professor Jones, folding up her timetable and putting it into her pocket. "Did he set you an assignment or something? I'm afraid I didn't see him before he left, but perhaps he left me a note on his desk…maybe I've missed it somewhere…" she began gathering up the papers on her desk, searching for the elusive note.

"No, it's about Harry Potter," Hermione answered.

The papers fell out of Professor Jones's hands and skimmed across the floor. Ron and Hermione knelt quickly to pick them up for her. As she bent to help, Professor Jones narrowed her eyes at them, roughly pushing the scattered papers together.

"I think I remember you two," she said. "In the hospital, at the start of the year. After…well, anyway. Didn't I chase you out at one point?"

"Yes, because we wanted to talk to Harry's godfather," Hermione reminded her. "And you wouldn't let us…"

"…You two! Bothering him – after what he'd just been through!" Professor Jones straightened up and snatched the papers out of Ron's hand. She was fuming. "You shouldn't be poking your noses into other people's business!"

"Now that's just unfair!" Hermione said furiously, dumping the last of the papers on the desk. "It's as much our business as it is yours – more, by the sound of it. How do you think we feel – he was our friend, if only for two weeks, and if there's any chance he could be alive somewhere, we want to know about it!"

Professor Jones glared at her for a second, her cheeks pinker than ever, and Hermione stared back. Than the black-haired witch turned away, her expression softening a little. "Of course he's alive," she said quietly. "At least, that's what Dumbledore believes, and Sirius, and I'd trust their judgement."

"Then you do know something about it all?" Hermione persisted.

Professor Jones spun around again, folding her arms. "No, nothing! Nothing at all! Now both of you get off to your next class before I start jinxing you!"

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There was no house that could be seen between number eleven Grimmauld Place and number thirteen. And yet, there was a house there.

It was not a house that could be entered easily; and once entered, it was a house that intruders would find difficult to leave. It was a not a pleasant house; though for a time now it had been home to pleasant people, still it was full of chilly corners and grasping shadows and a lingering sense of unwelcomeness.

Perhaps it was the spirit of the last House Elf who had served in the house – but Kreacher had died many months before, and if he had choked on a rat one night or simply expired from age, no one could say, for his body was dry and rotten by the time he was found, and if his ghost haunted the halls of the Black mansion, it was not answering any questions.

This house was the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, and so it had many temporary occupants, but none permanent, for even the last Black preferred his flat in the city to the gloomy corridors of number twelve Grimmauld Place. Almost the entire house was open to the members of the Order whenever they needed it, but there was one room that was always locked. This was the bedroom that had once belonged to Harry Potter, and it had not been opened since he had left it, but remained, filled with his childhood possessions, gathering dust in the darkness.

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"Remus!"

Lupin looked up from his bag. Kingsley Shacklebolt, coming down the stairs to the Grimmauld Place kitchen with a pair of ripped brown pantyhose in his hands, glanced around in confusion. His dark brows furrowed as he asked, "Who was that?"

"That _sounded_ like Sirius," Lupin replied, turning his gaze on the roaring oven, which had just begun to blaze green with an oncoming floo delivery.

The voice came again, "Remus!" and a moment later in a burst of green sparks Sirius Black climbed out of the oven, and to Lupin's utter surprise, he was grinning.

"Moony – there you are!" Sirius bounced across the kitchen and seized Lupin's hand. "You won't believe the good news I've got!"

"Oh, really?" Lupin said cautiously. He was wondering if Sirius hadn't been hit by some kind of hysteria curse. His face was glowing, and the excitement in his voice was a tone that sounded familiar from their school days.

"Stop looking at me like that, I'm not bewitched," Sirius said, interpreting Lupin's wary expression. "No, listen, you know where Hestia Jones and I have been…"

"Shopping?" Lupin asked, and Kingsley Shacklebolt sniggered from across the room.

"Hello, Kingsley!" Sirius waved jovially. "No, we've been out at every apothecary in the country…"

"Why?" Kingsley asked.

"We're tracking down any regular sales of aconite," Sirius said impatiently, as if this was something everyone was expected to know.

"It's the main ingredient in the Wolfsbane potion," Lupin told Kingsley before he could ask. His voice was rising in excitement now. Sirius had already told him about his latest pursuit. They had reasoned that wherever Harry was, it was more than likely he was receiving Wolfsbane every month, and Lupin knew from his own Wolfsbane experiences that the ingredients would not be easy to procure in secret. "Sirius, you haven't…you didn't…"

"Not quite," Sirius motioned for Lupin to have a seat, as the young man was looking suddenly pale. "Hestia and I were just looking for anything out of the ordinary, but all the herb-dealers we met were pretty closed up, they wouldn't tell us anything…but then we met Mundungus Fletcher in a little tavern up north and he got us in touch with some smugglers. They didn't have any loyalty to customers, you understand, so we handed over a few galleons and they were happy to talk. They'd be transporting herbs that were being sold to Lucius Malfoy!"

He had obviously expected Lupin to jump up and down in joy at this news, but Lupin simply frowned. "Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yes, he bought a _huge_ shipment of Aconite about three months ago – and about twenty pounds of something called Moly, but that's probably not relevant," Sirius was nodding eagerly. "And he ordered it all in separate packages, like he was trying to keep secret how much it was altogether. Lupin, we _know_ Lucius Malfoy is a suspected Death Eater, this has to be _it_! If he makes another order we can try and track the shipment, and it'll lead us…"

"Straight to Malfoy Manor," Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Which I believe we could find _without_ the help of Mundungus Fletcher."

"Don't be a fool. Malfoy isn't going to be brewing Wolfsbane in his own kitchen, and besides that, he's just ordering the herbs on behalf of You-Know-Who," Sirius dismissed Lupin's scepticism with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, Hestia and I didn't learn any more because just then she got an owl from Dumbledore and took off for Hogwarts, but when she told me you were at Grimmauld Place I came here to tell you. We can start looking for any other shipments…" the excitement on Sirius' face faded for a moment. "What _are_ you doing at Grimmauld Place? Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts, teaching?"

Kingsley, who had been listening to Sirius' eager account in silence, now came forward and held out the ripped pantyhose. "Here is your portkey, Remus. You know how to activate it."

"Portkey?" Sirius looked from Kingsley to Lupin. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, this is just for emergencies," Lupin explained, rolling up the pantyhose and tucking them carefully into the battered travelling case sitting open on the table. Sirius seemed to focus on this case for the first time, and confusion flickered across his face.

"You're leaving? Right when we've finally made a breakthrough?"

"Dumbledore's orders," said Lupin, and there was the faintest trace of bitterness in his voice. "I'm sorry, Sirius, but the Headmaster has been organising this for weeks now. I can't refuse him."

"Well, when are you coming back?"

A pained expression crossed Lupin's face before he managed to compose himself. "I…don't know. I might be gone for months."

"_Months?_ Where are you going?"

Lupin sighed. "Underground. Almost literally. Dumbledore has received news that Greyback has been mustering great numbers of werewolves in the wilderness. Dumbledore…wanted a spy."

Sirius looked aghast. His voice was rather higher than usual as he said. "But – surely – I mean, you could be killed!"

"I can take care of myself," Lupin replied firmly. "Now I really have to be going, Sirius, I'm supposed to catch a bus to Salisbury in twenty minutes."

Sirius and Kingsley accompanied him to the door, but Sirius seemed too shocked to say anything and Lupin was determinedly avoiding his eye. In the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place, Lupin turned back and pulled Sirius into a tight hug.

"Follow up that lead on Malfoy," he said breathlessly. "I know you'll do everything you can. You won't be able to contact me, but…but tell Dumbledore if you hear anything, Sirius. Anything at all. I want to be there when you find Harry."

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Most of the school was incensed by Lupin's disappearance, and rumours were rife about where he had gone. Many people were adamant he had been caught doing some illegal magic and had taken off, and was now on the run from the Ministry. Others believed he had eloped with a beautiful muggle movie star – where this rumour had come from was a mystery, as nobody really thought Lupin was the eloping type, but Hermione distinctly heard two muggle-born girls in the library talking about a "Mrs Angelina Lupin-Jolie".

It was no use getting information out of the other teachers. Professor Snape smirked at his second-year potions class that, "Professor Lupin has gone to live with some cousins of his for a while," but this was countered by Professor Sprout, who said while they were packing in the roots of their Puffapods in herbology that, "Poor Professor Lupin is just having a well-deserved rest in Brighton," and according to Fred and George, Professor Trelawny had intoned anxiously to her fifth-year class that, "Dear Professor Lupin…he has passed beyond my divine sight…I believe they will find his body this coming Wednesday…" Though nobody who knew Professor Trelawny was in the least bit concerned about this prediction.

Professor Jones, though rather lenient and certainly good fun, was not really a replacement for Lupin. Only the oldest seventh-years could remember the days of the last Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Lockhart, and so only they breathed a sigh of relief that the new one was no worse than she was.

But nobody could really tell whether they were learning much in Defence Against the Dark Arts these days: the lessons mostly consisted of the scribbling of rather hodge-podge notes punctuated by the sort of advice they would probably never use, such as, "Remember if you're ever setting an ambush in a muggle street, don't go near the cars, some of them have the _noisiest_ bloody alarms that go off with the slightest touch."

No one could deny that Professor Lupin's benevolent influence was sorely missed, even by most of the teachers. Professor McGonagall was heard berating Jones in the staffroom about giving some of the first-years nightmares as the result of a particularly gruesome tale about a Necromancer and a human sacrifice. Hermione, who tended to follow McGonagall's opinions as a rule, expressed her concern about Jones as well. "Alright, she could be worse, but she's not exactly _professional_, is she?" she complained while they walked quickly from their Defence Against the Dark Arts class to Charms.

"Oh, you just don't like her because she wouldn't tell us about Harry," Ron replied. Professor Jones's esteem had shot up several notches in his view due to the fact she had given Draco Malfoy two weeks' worth of detentions the day before, supposedly because she'd heard him say that Lupin was, "a shabby old mongrel who should have been fired years ago." For this she was given another scolding in the staff room, although this time it was from Professor Snape, who seemed furious that anyone should have the cheek to give a member of his house punishment for voicing an opinion which he had been expressing for years now.

"But I suppose he'd like an excuse to get her fired, he wants the Dark Arts job so bad," Ron pointed out when they heard this story for the third time, this time from Alicia Spinnet over breakfast.

"It's more than that," Hermione said, lathering margarine onto her toast. "He hates Professor Jones almost as much as he hated Professor Lupin. I think its because she's friends with that Sirius Black. You know," she lowered her voice, "Harry's godfather."

"Why d'you say that?" Ron asked, surprised.

"Haven't you _noticed_ Ron?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "All those stories about her old Auror days? Well, she said she changed the names of some the people in them for protection reasons, but the name _Padfoot_ comes up a heck of a lot, doesn't it? And I'm almost positive Harry called his Godfather 'Padfoot' once, when he was talking about his parents. If you ask me, Professor Jones was very close to Black before he disappeared for all those years – and she probably still is. I'll bet you anything she's helping him with the search for Harry."

"Hermione, how do you _remember_ all these things?" Ron groaned, leaning away from her as if mildly frightened of her enormous intellect.

----------------------------------------

However, not even Hermione managed to get much useful information out of their new Professor about Harry or Lupin. In fact, Professor Jones seemed to be actually avoiding Hermione and her probing questions wherever possible. She even went so far as to ask Neville Longbottom to stay behind in almost every class in order to avoid being left alone with Hermione or Ron.

However, the disappearance of Professor Lupin had been the trigger for Hermione's insatiable curiosity and she and Ron were now determined to find out what had become of Harry Potter by their own means.

Both of them felt they were entering very late in the game. For over seven months now, they had tried to forget about the strange boy who had so briefly been their friend and yet seemed to have affected them so deeply. They had been content to wait, expecting that sooner or later the adults would bring them news of Harry's safe return, and that things would work themselves out.

Now it was obvious this was not happening fast enough, and with Lupin gone and his replacement unwilling to share so much as a clue with the children, both Ron and Hermione had decided that if they wanted to find something out, they really _were_ going to have to find it themselves.

And because Hermione had been the one to take immediate charge of the operation, this meant an awful lot of lunchtimes in the library.

Ron did not think there was much use in poring through spell books, looking for charms and divining rituals that might give them some clue about Harry. He would rather have sneaked into a fireplace during their next Hogsmeade weekend and flooed all over the country searching for information. At the very least, he suggested that they might write to Nymphadora Tonks, who had, after all, been such good friends with Ron's brother Charlie. Even if she didn't know anything about Harry, Tonks was bound to tell them something about where Lupin had run off to.

"I'm telling you, Ron," said Hermione, thumping her books down on the nearest desk of the library, "we can't send a letter to Tonks. Even if she does know where Professor Lupin's gone, it's too _dangerous_ if the letter is intercepted. You must have noticed how Dumbledore is trying to keep his absence quiet?"

"He's not doing a very good job of it though, is he?" Ron grumbled, opening _Lost and Found: Places No One Thinks to Look_ and skimming through the index. "You should have heard the stories people are coming up with. All the Slytherins reckon Lupin's in the mental wing of St Mungo's with his brains addled, and Ernie MacMillan swore he heard from McGonagall's own mouth that Lupin was poisoned by Snape."

"That's ridiculous," Hermione snapped. "And I think Professor Dumbledore is hoping people _will_ come up with all sorts of stupid theories. That way, if someone found out the truth, no one would believe them."

Ron shrugged, "I just hope he _isn't_ in St Mungo's. I wouldn't put it past Snape to poison Lupin. They hate each other, don't they?"

"So you say," Hermione muttered, "anyway, keep an eye out for Neville, will you?"

"Why?"

"He asked me to help him with his Transfiguration homework, and I said he could come to the library with us," Hermione looked down at her book, _Relatives You Never Knew You'd Lost_, and going a little pink.

"_What?_" Ron groaned. "Hermione, I thought we were trying to keep it a _secret_, the fact that we're looking for Harry."

"Neville was awfully persistent," Hermione replied, "besides, it looks as if he must have forgotten, because he should be here by now. So stop worrying."

Ron rolled his eyes at her, "Sometimes I just don't know about you," he said as he flicked onto the next page. "Here we go, a spell to locate lost objects. Take your wand, recite, _location _three times, then spell the object out on your palm," Ron took his wand. "Do you think I can fit 'Harry Potter' on my hand?"

"If you write small," Hermione said without raising her head. "But that's a spell for lost handkerchiefs and things, Ron, I don't think it's going to help us with a whole person.

Ron opened another book. "Here's one for helping Owls search for people."

Hermione made a face. "It might work, but the real problem is that if…_they_…" by this, she meant the Death Eaters, "are the ones holding Harry, they'll have made him unplottable and all sorts of other powerful charms. I'll start researching the spells that make something unplottable…there must be ways to break them…"

Ron sighed, "I really don't see how we're going to find a spell that Dumbledore hasn't thought of, Hermione. Surely he'll have already tried everything?"

Hermione had no answer for this. There was a moment of dejected silence, then a nervous voice said. "You're talking about Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Hermione swung around in her chair and Ron jumped and raised his wand. Neville Longbottom was standing just behind them, having just come out from behind the nearest bookshelf. Though it was a mild spring day, he wore woollen blue gloves and a grey scarf was wrapped around his neck so many times it came right up to his chin, as if he was hoping to hide under it.

"What're you doing, listening in?" said Ron, putting down his wand.

"I'm sorry," Neville said timidly, coming forward to stand beside Hermione's chair, "I didn't mean to. I came here early because Hermione said she'd help me with my homework, and I was just looking through the Herbology section when I heard you talking."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort, "no excuse, you lump. We were having a private conversation."

"Leave him alone, Ron," Hermione said sharply.

Neville did not flinch at the insult. "You _were_ talking about Harry Potter," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes," Hermione replied. "Did you know him, Neville?"

Neville shook his head, "I…I think I met him once, I don't know for sure. He was invisible."

"I see," said Hermione. "Well, we'd appreciate if you didn't tell any of the Professors we're looking for him, alright?" she continued in a patient voice.

"But I want to help," Neville said eagerly. "I've seen him."

Hermione and Ron both looked up at him with identical expressions of shock. "_What_? Where?" they chorused.

Neville looked away, hunching a little so that his mouth disappeared under his scarf like a turtle retreating into its shell. "I've been having dreams about him," he said quietly.

This took a moment to sink in. Then Ron laughed so loudly Madame Pince, the librarian, stuck her head out of the office and glared at him. Hermione kicked Ron to shut him up and waved reassuringly at Madame Pince, who withdrew, looking vindictively sullen.

Neville glowered at Ron furiously. "It isn't funny," he said. "It's true. I've seen him in my dreams."

"Have you told Madame Pomphrey about these dreams?" Hermione asked kindly.

"No…I…"

"Well, I think maybe it's just a sort of imagining, Neville," she suggested, still in her most motherly, patient voice. She closed _Relatives You Never Knew You'd Lost_. "Why don't you pull up a chair and I'll help you that with Transfiguration homework…"

"Hermione," said Ron in a dazed sort of voice. "Hang on for just a second. Neville's not imagining – he really does have dreams," Ron gulped, "about…true stuff."

Hermione gave Ron a look that plainly said that's-just-ridiculous-and-not-funny-at-all.

"No, he does," Ron looked at Neville. "That night you had a fit and we went to see Dumbledore. Was it like that?"

Neville, who had been retreating further and further into his scarf, now emerged and nodded solemnly. He was clutching the back of an empty chair with his gloved hands as if he thought he would float away in the breeze. "Professor Dumbledore told me not to tell anyone about the dreams," he said quietly. "Some of the teachers, like McGonagall, know about them but otherwise it's just between him and me."

Hermione bit her lip and said cautiously, "But you don't mind telling us?"

Neville looked down at his gloved hands. "Professor Dumbledore has been trying to teach me Occlumency," Ron opened his mouth to ask what this was and Hermione shot him a glare to stop him interrupting, "so that the dreams will stop. He thinks they're dangerous for me, even though I've helped him lots of times. So I didn't tell him that I was dreaming about Harry…I'm getting better at Occlumency, and I kept it secret from him…because I want to find Harry. I want to do _something_ that will be of some use, but if Professor Dumbledore knew I was dreaming about Harry he'd make the dreams stop."

Ron gaped. "Then you…all this time, you could have…"

"Tell us about Harry," Hermione persisted, "what do you see?"

Neville paused. He looked more frightened than Hermione had ever seen him, even more frightened than when he had to tell Professor Snape he had melted another cauldron. But she could also see he was fighting to be brave.

After a few moments Neville said, "It's always in this house. I don't know where. I've only seen if from the inside. And I'm – I'm talking to him. To Harry. And I think I'm…I'm _You-Know-Who_," he whispered, "like I'm looking out of his eyes, speaking with his voice, my hands are these big skinny white hands," Ron and Hermione were staring, transfixed, their mouths hanging open. Neville plunged onwards. "Harry is always surprised to see me. He always gets angry, then calm after a while. The same thing, each time – but it's a different dream, a different day. I talk…I mean, You-Know-Who talks to Harry, asks him questions…things like, how he's feeling, is there anything he wants, has he been sick or hurt."

"He asks him how he's _feeling?_" Ron cried in disbelief.

"Shut up!" Hermione slapped his hand. "Go on, Neville," she said. Her face was very white.

Neville took a breath and then continued, "Harry answers the questions after a while. He's looking at me – at You-Know-Who – with so much hatred on his face. And I say…I mean, You-Know-Who says… a lot of things to him that aren't very nice, like he's a fool to keep resisting, and I wish I'd killed him instead of his mother. And eventually, I say goodbye, and then I take out my wand, and point it at Harry – "

A moment of silence followed. Ron leaned forward, "and?" he said breathlessly, "and what do you – I mean what does _He_ – do?"

"I don't know," said Neville. "That's when I always wake up."

---------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: Ahem. Well. You're welcome to ask me questions, as always, but if the question is "What the heck is Neville talking about? Harry's never met with Voldemort!" I'm afraid I can't answer it. Everything will be explained before long. The other question you will probably have is, "What do you mean by getting rid of Lupin for several months?" To which I assure you, Lupin is NOT disappearing from this story. He will probably be in most of the chapters coming up. If not all of them.

So, to distract you from your confusion, I'd like to thank you all:

Tashc, Phyre's child13, illachi, CrimsonReality, sephiroth's sword, Cruciatus88, Dunvi, atropa haven, maria, EsScaper, hermione1208, LittleCrazy1, SBR, Elle's Bell's 88, IritIlan, Erinne, marthamobley.

My last note before I go is that this will probably be the last update for a few days because I'm heading down south to wet, rainy Dunedin so that I can see all the relatives for Christmas. I might get to check my email but I definitely won't have access to a keyboard the long periods of time required to write. But fear not, I'm coming home on Boxing Day and I'll get started on the next chapter then, although it possibly won't be up until after New Years.

So – merry Christmas everybody! I hope you all have a good one! Eat lots, have fun, enjoy your holidays and I'll see you next year!

Cheers,  
Tawa


	9. Once in a Blood Moon

A/N: This chapter is _finally_ up, and I really am sorry it's taken so long. It almost certainly won't ever take this long again. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and I wish you a happy new 2006!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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The round Gryffindor common room was thick with anxious children, the scratching of quills, and notes fluttering through the air. The end-of-year exams were breathing down the students' necks and Percy Weasley had resumed his habit of slamming detentions on anyone who disturbed the peace. But in one darkened huddle of chairs next to the fireplace, three second-years had abandoned their homework and were discussing quite a different topic.

"Please, Neville," Hermione whispered. "Please tell Professor Dumbledore about these dreams. If there's a chance he can scavenge some information from them, he has to know. This could be our only way to really help Harry."

Neville was hunched over his Herbology notes, pretending to read, but his eyes were not moving. Hermione and Ron had been trying to convince him to reveal his dreams ever since he had confided in them.

"_Why_ don't you want Dumbledore to know?" Ron asked in exasperation.

This was what it always boiled down to. Neville was not quite sure himself why he did not want Dumbledore to know about the dreams. All he knew for certain was that if he told the Headmaster, Dumbledore would make the dreams stop, and he did not want that.

And of course, he would not explain to Neville why things had to be like that. Dumbledore never explained anything to Neville. Oh, he told him things – he told him about the Prophecy, the connection to Voldemort, the danger that was always lurking – but he never _explained_. Even when Neville warned the Headmaster about something he had seen in a dream, Dumbledore wouldn't explain what it was Neville was seeing. Sometimes Neville wanted to shake the old Professor and shout, _"I'm not stupid! Tell me what's happening in this war!_" But he didn't dare.

And now, at last, he was privy to something that Dumbledore didn't know about. At first, he had not bothered to share his dreams of Harry because unlike the other dreams, they weren't warnings, merely visions. But after a while, it was a more selfish reason. He felt he knew Harry, intimately and secretly – like an old friend. And he _knew_ he was being selfish and stupid, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing that connection to another human being.

"_Please,_ Neville," Hermione leaned forward and put her hand over his. "Please tell Dumbledore."

Neville looked at her soft white fingers and slowly nodded. "Alright," he whispered. "Alright. I will…and I'm sorry I've been so…so dumb."

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The door of Dumbledore's office closed with a quite snick behind Ron, Hermione and Neville, and Dumbledore listened to the three sets of footsteps disappear down the stairs before he allowed himself to sink into a chair by the fire. On his perch high at the back of the room, Fawkes gave a querying trill, but Dumbledore did not answer him.

What Neville had revealed to him disturbed him far more than he could dare to admit. He had spent years now, subduing every rumour that arose about how Neville Longbottom had survived the slaughter of his family and how he had gotten the curious scar on his forehead. Not least because he did not want anyone to treat the poor boy as some kind of celebrity, or worse, a freak – but also because he had to know exactly what it was that had happened to Neville. What the creature known as Voldemort had done; what connected Neville to Harry Potter – and what separated them.

"Why did you choose him, Tom?" Dumbledore muttered to himself. "If you knew what would result, why did you mark Neville instead of Harry? Was it because he was a pure-blood – even though you yourself are not? Was it simply convenience – because you tracked the Longbottoms down first? Or was it something else?"

And why was Voldemort sending Neville these dreams? Dumbledore knew they were no accident on the Dark Lord's part. They were too careful not to give away anything about Harry's location. Yet nor are they false visions. So what was Voldemort trying to achieve? Was he merely studying the connection he had with Neville, or were these dreams for Neville himself? What did he have to gain from them?

Fawkes gave his querying call again and Dumbledore broke out of his musing and rose to his feet.

"There are too many questions, Fawkes," Dumbledore sighed, gliding over to the phoenix's perch and running one wrinkled finger other the bird's feathered crest. "All I can do is make sure the dreams stop. I will redouble my efforts to teach Neville Occlumency." Fawkes crooned in reply, and watched as Dumbledore went over to the desk and pulled out a blank piece of parchment and a quill.

"And what am I supposed to tell Sirius?" he said aloud to himself as he took up the quill and reached for a bottle of ink. "He needs to know that Harry is still alive and well – but what will he do when I tell him I am doing everything I can to stop these dreams from continuing?"

Who knew what Sirius Black would do – Dumbledore could no longer predict how far Sirius would go to retrieve his godson. He might demand that the headmaster follow up on these dreams, even though Dumbledore already knew it would do no good. He might even come seeking Neville himself.

Or, worst of all – Dumbledore could barely conceive it as a possibility, yet he knew that it was – Sirius Black might finally snap and go to the Death Eaters.

Anyone who knew Sirius well would laugh at the idea. But Dumbledore had seen what Sirius was willing to do to protect Harry. Was it so ludicrous that he would take that one step further and _join_ Voldemort's followers, just so he could know for sure that his Godson was being taken care of? No, it was not ludicrous.

"And you do not trust me, Sirius," Dumbledore said quietly, his hand resting on the blank parchment. "You do not trust me at all. You will not believe me if I tell you it is vitally important Neville never dreams of Harry again. No – you cannot hear this news from me. You have to hear it from someone else."

Remus – he was the only one Sirius would believe. Dumbledore sighed. Remus Lupin was far away and it was too early for him to come home. So the Headmaster would have to wait to pass on this new information. Once Remus returned from his task, Dumbledore would tell him about Neville's dreams, and then he could tell Sirius.

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The enchanted windows of the Ministry of Magic filled the halls with warm evening sunlight, golden and summery. The Aurors working late with papers and investigations called cheerily to each other as one by one, they filed away folders of parchment, put on their cloaks and headed home for the night. It was now well and truly summer, and many of the Aurors were looking forward to when their children would be coming home from Hogwarts school, in only a few days' time.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was studying a report on muggle secretarial work which Arthur Weasley had written up for him. Moody had had the idea of planting an Auror in the inner circle of the muggle Prime Minister, and Kingsley had been chosen for the job. He had to admit, as he scanned through the verses of "God Save the Queen", that blending into a muggle office was going to be more difficult than he had thought. Deciding he had had quite enough details on muggle ballpoint pens to last a lifetime, he glanced at the luminous owl-shaped clock on the wall, stood up, stretched, and flicked his wand to clear his desk. Papers shot away across the room and slipped into near-invisible cracks in filing cabinets and drawers.

He was just closing his briefcase when he heard a commotion at the lifts. He looked up and saw one of the security wizards trying to prevent someone leaving the elevator.

"Look, I'm sorry, but you are not supposed to be here-" the security wizard was saying, but a strained, angry voice overrode him.

"For goodness' sake, I am running out of time, just _let me through_!"

Kingsley recognised the voice at once and doubled his stride. Remus Lupin was trying to push past into the office. A couple of Aurors waiting to use the lift were standing to one side, scowling.

"It's alright," Kingsley called, before a fight could break out. "He's with me, Pembroke," he added to the security wizard, who muttered darkly as he stepped back to admit Remus. The young professor was not looking healthy, even by his own standards. He was pale and panting as if he had run a long way very fast, wearing robes that were undeniably filthy and his normally tidy hair was longer than usual and sticking up in odd places. Kingsley opened his mouth to ask Remus what he was doing but Remus did not wait to be asked.

"Greyback," he gasped, seizing Kingsley's arm, and it took Kingsley a moment to realise that Remus was not calling _him_ Greyback. "You got my message – didn't you, Kingsley? – I sent you a message saying Greyback was mustering for an attack of some kind."

"Yes, I did," Kingsley had not seen Remus for months, ever since he had gone to integrate with the fugitive werewolves, but Dumbledore had managed to pass on a few messages that he felt were important. "But you said we were looking at something that was months away…"

"I was wrong. I think they suspect I'm working for Dumbledore. They're doing it tonight," Remus babbled, and his eyes flicked to the enchanted windows, where the sun was sinking steadily towards the horizon. "You have to stop him – Kingsley, you've got maybe three hours before moonrise – at least twenty-five werewolves, they'll be in London…"

"Where?" Kingsley's voice remained calm, and he brought out his wand, already calculating which Aurors could be gathered in so short a time. The Ministry Hit Wizards could be called in as well, and perhaps a few Obliviators who were trained for combat.

"An orphanage, in town, I've got the address, I'm supposed to…I'm supposed to go with them," Remus said. The tendons of his neck were clenched. "You understand what they're going to do? They'll savage – all those children – kidnap them and take them to be raised as werewolves…I can't let them…"

Kingsley nodded. He had to pry Remus's fingers off his forearm just to step away. "Will they have noticed you have gone?" he asked as he began to send messages to all the Aurors left in the building. When Remus shook his head, Kingsley continued. "Do you think if you went back yyou could slip away before it begins?"

"Yes…yes, I think so…"

"Then you must go back. If they suspect a trap, they will come prepared to fight wizards, and not enough of us are trained to kill werewolves."

"Kill werewolves," echoed Remus dully.

"We need the element of surprise, Remus. Give me the address then go back as fast as you can."

----------------------------------------

Three hours until moonrise, Remus had said.

You couldn't raise an army in three hours. Kingsley glanced sideways at where he knew Emmeline Vance was standing a little way away, but he could only just make out her blurry outline against the brick wall of the orphanage. All across the front of the building, the Aurors stood in formation, wands at the ready. But only a keen eye could have picked them out; all of them were under Disillusionment charms, making them near-invisible in the fading light of the sunset.

The orphanage at their backs was an old, tottering building. None of the windows were lighted. Kingsley had sent in a number of Obliviators to quickly subdue the muggles within the building, so that they did not come running outside if they heard a commotion. It was vital the muggles stayed out of this fight.

A shiver ran down the line of Aurors as the last rays finally dimmed. The moon would be rising in minutes – less than a minute, perhaps – and none of them were really prepared for what Kingsley had said they were facing. Werewolf attacks had been rising in recent years, but they very rarely required Ministry officials to apprehend the wolf in question, since by the time the Ministry could be called, it was usually too late.

These witches and wizards simply were not experienced in fighting werewolves. Some of them had even been in bed when he had summoned them from their homes. And before the night was out, some of them could be dead –

_Keep your mind on the task at hand_, Kingsley thought to himself. But then his mind began to wander once more, and he thought Remus Lupin, and guilt nuzzled at him. He had sent Remus back, knowing it was necessary to keep control of the situation – but he may have sent Remus to his doom. If Greyback had discovered that Remus was reporting to the Ministry, he could already be dead. If he had managed to maintain his cover, he might still have been forced to join the other werewolves in the attack. He might well be approaching, knowing he had to escape before he transformed, or he would lose all control…

Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw Emmeline Vance tense and he swept his gaze across the empty muggle street. He knew at once what she had seen. The dark shape of a man was slinking out from behind a parked car, moving slowly and quietly. Then another shape emerged about twenty feet away, and then another, and another – they were appearing out of nowhere, moving in a pack towards the front door of the orphanage.

There were at least twenty men and one or two women. Kingsley knew that most of them would be muggles, exiled from their own kind and living under Greyback's law because they did not know any better. Taught to hate those who could wield magic when they could not. Many of them were dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, their hair mangy and long, but others had found the means to keep themselves tidy. One even wore a crisp suit and brightly-shined shoes.

They had not yet seen the half-invisible Aurors, but it would only be a moment now…

"Hoy!" One of the men across the street called, raising one gnarled hand and pointing straight at Kingsley. "Lookit! There's someone there…"

Heads snapped up, and Kingsley saw noses sniff in a decidedly wolf-like manner. Growls rose in throats. One of the werewolves gave a panicked whimper, and another cried. "Greyback! It's a trap! We must…"

"No!" a low voice that seemed to reek of blood emanated from the centre of the pack. "Do not run!"

Kingsley raised his wand, swept it from side to side, and the Disillusionment charms dissolved away. Before the eyes of the snarling werewolves, thirty-six Aurors and Ministry Hit Wizards swam into existence, lined up across the pavement, on the steps of the orphanage, and even perched on the windowsills. The werewolves, knowing themselves to be outnumbered, drew closer together, raising their hands to defend themselves.

"Aurors, now! Stun them!" Kingsley called, stabbing his wand forward, and the Aurors brought their wands up and leapt towards the werewolves, already crying spells.

And over the rooftops, the moon began to rise in the deep blue sky.

----------------------------------------

The morning light was dulled by a thin layer of cloud, and low fog drifted in wisps across the pavement. The air had a warm summer smell about it, but the ground was still cold. Through the fog came the deep growl of a motorbike, and a moment later a dark shape sped around the corner and bumped to a stop beside a concrete lamppost.

Sirius parked his motorbike as far away from Grimmauld Place as he could, cast a Disillusionment charm over it, and ran the rest of the way. He was panting by the time he reached the door of the house and tapped it with his wand to unlock it.

In his other hand was clutched a tiny scrap of parchment which had flown out of his fireplace that morning. On it, in handwriting that Sirius recognised as Remus Lupin's, were the words, _Come quickly, I need your help_. Nothing else, but Sirius knew that Lupin could only be at number twelve Grimmauld Place or he would have specified otherwise. That meant he was back from his stint with the werewolves – and Sirius did not need to read the headline of that day's _Daily Prophet_ to know that _that_ meant something bad.

He pushed the door shut after him and found the lamps were not lit in the hall. He couldn't find the switch in the darkness so he lit his wand and hurried downstairs towards the kitchen. Through a crack in the door Sirius could see that the kitchen was lit by candles and he pushed open the door without breaking his stride.

Lupin was standing in front of the oven, warming his hands on a smouldering fire. He turned as he heard the door open. Sirius had to fight not to growl. Lupin was looking very rough. His hair was longer than usual, and looked as if it had not seem a comb or brush for days. There were new patches on his robes, the hemline of which was caked in mud. But his face was a mess. Scratches formed red welts across his cheeks and neck, and a bruise was blossoming on his temple. He also had what Sirius immediately identified as canine tooth marks on his chin.

It had been a full moon last night, and a few scratches were not unusual if Lupin had not been taking Wolfsbane – but he couldn't bite his own chin. Another werewolf had done this.

"Hello," Lupin croaked, limping over to Sirius. As he did so, he glanced sideways at his pack that had been dropped in the corner of the room under a pile of blankets.

"You're a mess," said Sirius, grabbing Lupin's arm and pulling him into a quick hug.

Lupin nodded. He wasn't smiling: in fact, he looked on the verge of tears.

"What's happened?" Sirius asked, pushing Lupin down onto a chair and pulling up another for himself. "You said you needed help."

"Yes, I…" Lupin shook his head as if trying to remember. "I only just got away at the last minute. Kingsley…Kingsley couldn't see me in the crowd…once we were werewolves, he would have…would have killed me with the others…"

Sirius had only glanced at the _Daily Prophet_ article, so all he knew was that a muggle Orphanage had been attacked by werewolves and the Aurors had driven them back. Two wizards were dead and five times that many of the werewolves. Most of the rest had been arrested, but the Ministry was still searching for Fenrir Greyback, who had been seen escaping into London, badly wounded by a battle with Emmeline Vance.

"You might want those scratches looked at," said Sirius. "St Mungo's? I've got my bike…"

Lupin shook his head. He still looked dazed and confused. Sirius wondered if the bruise on his temple might be the result of a concussion.

"Come on, Moony," he insisted. "You're in a bad way. Let's get out of here and get you patched up. You're not going back undercover."

Lupin shook his head again and put his face in his hands. Then Sirius heard a strange noise, a sort of snarling groan. It was coming from Lupin's pack in the corner of the room. Lupin was on his feet at once and hurried across to kneel beside the pack, which shuddering, groaned again, wriggled…

It was not a pack at all.

Before Sirius could open his mouth to speak, there was a low roaring as the fire in the oven flared green. A moment later, a shape appeared, revolving very fast, and a lean figure climbed out of the fire, shaking her mousy-brown hair so that soot fell out of it in clouds. She raised her head, and saw Sirius first.

"Tonks?"

"Where is he?" his young cousin wailed. She was clutching a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in one hand and her face was streaking with tears. Her eyes were so red and puffy that Sirius was surprised she had managed to get as far as the fireplace without walking into something.

"Tonks…" Sirius began.

Tonk threw the newspaper down on the table where the headline _TEN WEREWOLVES KILLED IN THWARTED ATTACK_ lay upright in stark black letters and collapsed onto the chair which Lupin had just vacated. Her shoulders were shaking and her hair was limp and flat. "He's d-dead," she sobbed. "I s-saw the newpaper and I just knew…"

"Tonks, I'm right here," said Lupin, and he sounded relieved for the first time that morning. Tonks' head whipped around to look at him, and she rubbed her eyes to clear her vision, the misery melting away from her face as she saw Lupin alive and well.

And then her eyes saw what he was holding and her brows tightened in a bewildered sort of way.

The blankets had fallen away from the lumpy thing which Sirius had thought was a pack. It was not – it was a girl, not older than twenty, wearing a dirty grey dress, her feet bare and scabby, her hair a brownish tangle pulled into what might once have been a single plait. She had a square, muddy face, twisted into a bitter, ugly expression, her teeth bared and her eyes narrowed. Her nose was wide and lumpy, as if it had been broken at least once, and there was a bit of dried blood on her upper lip. Her thin, knobbly hands were clutching the front of Lupin's robes in a fierce grip and she was leaning against him.

Lupin was helping her to her feet, with his arms around her.

Tonks stared at the girl. The girl stared back, her face still pressed to Lupin's chest, looking both hostile and terrified.

"Erm," said Lupin, clearing his throat. "Sirius – Tonks – this is Maud."

"Oh," said Tonks in a surprised sort of voice.

---------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: Um…yes. Questions welcome. Although might I first say that I think everything is relevant in this chapter, just in case that was your question.

So thank you everyone:

Erinne, illachi, CrimsonReality, Cruciatus88, Phyre's child13, hermione1208, sephiroth's sword, Elle's Bells, crazy4thesun, LittleCrazy1, EsScaper, sami1010220, SBR

Next chapter I am hoping to introduce Umbridge and make everyone hate her (even more than they do already). Or I may do another Harry chapter. I have to work out how far we have to go until the two plots merge.

Cheers!


	10. The Red Letter

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

---------------------------------------------

Harry's head was throbbing. His ears were full of a distant buzzing. And far away, a cold, high voice was speaking.

"You've done very well, all things considering. I knew I had made the right choice in you."

The voice was so familiar. Harry tried to reply, but all that came out was a muffled, "Lemme go…"

The high voice gave a soft laugh, "I think not. Do not try to escape again. You must know it is all in vain."

Harry tried to open his eyes, but he was too exhausted.

"Sleep now."

Harry wanted to protest, but his brain was already shutting down and the buzzing in his ears grew quieter as he drifted off into a deep slumber.

-------------------------------------

Harry slowly opened his eyes and sat up. His eyes adjusted quickly to the familiar darkness of the bedroom, and he leaned over and switched on the small gas lamp by the bed.

He remembered how close he had been to escape and buried his face in his hands. For a moment he let himself sit there, thinking about the smell of the grass, then he pushed the disappointment away and slid his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. He went to the door of the bedroom, and found it locked. He jiggled the handle in frustration, but it paid him no heed. He was stuck in the bedroom until someone came to unlock it.

Leaving the door, Harry lit the lamps in the room and went into the bathroom. He did his business, then found the soap, filled the bath with a few inches of water and stripped off his clothes.

Wormtail never had gone through with his promise of hot water. Harry washed himself in the icy bath, scrubbing his skin until it was pink instead of bone-white from the lack of sun. He washed his hair too, trying to work out the tangles with his fingers. His hair had not been cut since…since he had last seen Sirius. It was so long it was down to his shoulders, and got in his eyes all the time. If he only had a pair of scissors and a mirror.

For a while he sat in the cold bath with his knees up to his chin, while his wet hair dripped around his face.

_I will not stay here forever!_ Harry thought to himself. _I will not!_ He tried to remember the last time he had heard music, and couldn't. He tried to remember what it felt like to wear clean clothes and shower in warm water and what ice cream tasted like, and found that he couldn't remember any of those things either. They might as well have been something he had read about in a book but never really experienced.

He tried to remember what it was like to feel safe, and a distant, fuzzy image came to him of his mother and father, in their secret house in Godric's Hollow, before everything had started to go wrong. That was all that came to him.

Harry pulled out the plug of the bath, got out and towelled himself dry. He was rubbing impatiently at his hair when he heard the lock click in the bedroom and the door swing open. He hurriedly wrapped the small towel around his waist, his vision swimming in a sudden burst of hatred for Wormtail. He looked around the corner of the bathroom doorway to see the back of the man's head laying down a tray of breakfast on the bedside table.

For a moment Harry had the urge to just rush out there, grab the breakfast tray and bring down as hard as he could on Wormtail's balding head. He could snatch the man's wand and before Wormtail knew what had happened he would be gone. But then the man shuffled around and saw Harry watching him.

For a moment, Harry could almost have felt sorry for him. Wormtail's master had not been forgiving for the slip up that had allowed Harry to leave the house. He looked paler and smaller than ever, and he cringed at the sight of Harry and backed hurriedly out the door and away.

Harry dressed and ate quickly, then went out into the hall, meaning to head downstairs. But he brought himself up short.

The stairwell was blocked. Not by an invisible, shimmering barrier like the one that had previously kept him locked inside, but by a brick wall. It completely covered the stairwell, every crack plastered up.

Harry stepped back, staring at the wall. How had Wormtail gotten through? Was he still on the top floor? But no – Harry had heard his footsteps on the creaking stairs – though they had seemed more muffled than usual. So how…?

He gingerly reached out and touched the wall, which gave no response. He prodded the bricks, thinking of the portal to enter Diagon Alley. But if this wall were like the one in Diagon Alley, then you would need a wand to open it.

"No!" Harry slammed his fist into the wall, bruising his knuckles. "Let me out, Wormtail!" He yelled, slapping his hand on the wall. "Let me out!"

He kept hammering and shouting, and suddenly the bricks seemed to be crumbling under his touch. He jumped back, mouth agape as they rolled and shuddered away until a hole about the size of a window had appeared in the wall. Wormtail's rat-like face peered through it.

"You're not a-allowed downstairs u-unless I say so," Wormtail said in a frightened hiss. "I'm to make a-all your meals. I'm in ch-charge."

Harry lunged at the window and got his head and shoulders through before Wormtail raised his wand. The bricks contracted once more: Harry only had time to pull one arm out when he suddenly found he was stuck, wedged half-way through a brick wall. He struggled angrily, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment at his position rise in his cheeks. Wormtail had retreated back down a few stairs.

"I'll stop eating again," Harry warned, gritting his teeth. The bricks were slowly tightening around his middle, and it was beginning to hurt.

"Master already knows," Wormtail replied. His voice was not so frightened now. He jabbed his wand at Harry and the bricks contracted further. "If y-you try it, I'll call Him and He'll sort you o-out."

Harry could not repress a grunt as the air was slowly pushed out of his lungs by the contracting bricks. Was Wormtail trying to _kill_ him? And suddenly Harry looked into the man's pointed face and realised that was exactly what Wormtail wanted to do. He hated Harry just as much as Harry hated him, and he could not keep himself from hurting Harry…

"Let me go," Harry growled, and he no longer had enough air in his lungs for it to come out as anything more than a gasp.

Wormtail suddenly seemed to come to himself. The expression of loathing on his face vanished and he flicked his wand and turned away down the stairs. The bricks loosened just enough for Harry to wriggle backwards, back into the hallway. Once he was free, the wall closed up once more.

---------------------------------------

Being trapped in the upper storey of the house fuelled Harry's determination as nothing before. He worked at finding more and more ingenious ways to escape his prison. All of the enchantments in the house had been strengthened, and none of them responded to him any more. He had tried other wandless magic with no success. So clearly, all that he had left o reply on was his own brains.

Wormtail only allowed Harry to come downstairs when he was in a particularly good mood, so Harry took the rare opportunities he had to steal the blunt cutlery out of the kitchen, find himself some decent food, and check all the doors and windows for weaknesses. The only thing he found was that the gap under one of the front doors had not been blocked like the rest.

It wasn't a big gap. It wasn't large enough for Harry to even get his little finger under, but it gave him an idea, which he added to the mental list of all the other ideas he'd already had for escaping.

Wormtail had to go somewhere to get food and other supplies. There must be a muggle village nearby. Harry could ask Wormtail to buy him some muggle chewing gum. Then he could write a note describing his situation and use the chewing gum to stick it to the back of Wormtail's jacket. When Wormtail went down to the village, someone would see the note and pull it off. Of course, there was a good chance Wormtail would snatch the note back if he saw it…but maybe, just maybe…

Harry decided he would try it. He had to find some paper first, so he tore a nearly-blank page out of the front of one of the books in the upstairs library.

Now he had to find something to write with. But he didn't have any ink, or a pen or pencil. He tried using the gritty yellow soap from the bathroom, but it left no colour on the paper. He tried mixing dust from under the bed with a little bit of water, but the dust fell off the paper as it dried. He searched the library from bottles of ink – even dried ink which he might have recovered – but there was nothing.

At last, Harry realised he had no other choice. There was only one thing he could use that he was certain would not fade or disappear.

Blood.

The fork he had stolen from the kitchen was the sharpest instrument he had. He had planned to use it as a weapon against Wormtail, and felt a little ill to think of using it on himself. But he could not think of anything else to do. He tore out another piece of paper and rolled the tip of it up tightly, for a make-shift quill. Then he took his writing-paper, his paper-quill and the fork into the bathroom and set all the lamps he could find nearby so that he had as much light as possible.

It took all his courage to make the cut on his palm. It also took about half an hour, and hurt a lot more than he had expected. His eyes kept watering involuntarily, and he had to stop to wipe them. Finally a trickle of blood welled up in the cut he had made, and he put the fork aside with a sigh of relief. He cradled his stinging hand to his chest and pick up the paper quill.

Then he realised. He was right-handed. He had made the cut on his right hand.

Harry nearly cried then, out of despair and frustration at his own stupidity. It took him a moment to get a hold of himself. He could still write with the left hand. It would just take longer, and it would be harder, that was all.

With his good hand, he flattened the paper on the floor and put the tip of the quill to the cut on his hand. Blood soaked up into the paper and he quickly transferred the quill to the open page. Now he realised he had no idea what to write. How could he express all that he wanted to say in so small a note? He wanted to write everything – he wanted to talk about how desperate to be free he was and how lonely he felt, and about how he had escaped, and how he had set fire to the curtains, and how there were spells on the doors, and how much he hated Wormtail.

But this letter might be his only chance. He had to write exactly what his would-be rescuer needed to know.

He pressed the quill to the paper and found it had already dried. Biting his lip to keep from shouting in exasperation, Harry gathered more blood on the tip and wrote, _I am in the house on the hill, Please help_. He thought for a moment, then decided if muggles were going to read this letter, he didn't want them bringing the muggle authorities into the matter. The Death Eaters could easily deal with muggle authorities. So he wrote_, don't call police_.

He continued to write, haltingly with his left hand, until the paper was filled. Then he gently pressed the washcloth to the cut on his hand until it stopped bleeding. He washed away the excess blood and flushed all the evidence except from the precious note down the toilet. His hand was bleeding again by then but he wrapped the washcloth around it and didn't touch anything with it.

He read through the note again.

"I am in the house on the hill  
Please help, don't call police  
Find Sirius Black  
12 Grimmauld Pl. London  
Tell him: name of the village  
No guard but Wormtail  
Outer doors and windows  
impenetrable, outer wall is  
bewitched, untouchable  
He will know what to do  
My love to him & Moony  
Harry"

There. That should be enough. Harry folded up the note and put it into his pocket. It felt as if it was warming him through his clothes. He was going to get out of here: all he had to do now was get the note to someone in the village, and Sirius would come, and he would take Harry home.

-------------------------------------

It was almost another month before Harry got his chance. In the end, he didn't have to ask Wormtail for chewing gum. Fate, at last, gave him some help.

It was one of the rare days where Wormtail let him downstairs, though he told Harry that it was only for an hour or so, because he was leaving the house to buy their weekly groceries. Harry simply nodded. He avoided speaking to Wormtail whenever he could help it.

The note was still in his pocket, scrunched and torn, the blood dried to brown, but still intact and legible. Harry had been carrying it for weeks, waiting to plant it on Wormtail. But on this day he was not even thinking about escape.

He was hungry – he was always hungry, now that he was no longer allowed to make his own meals – and was rummaging through the pantries looking for something to eat. There was no bread left, no vegetables, not even raw flour or oats. Harry opened up the cupboards, but they were empty of anything edible. Stomach rumbling, he left the kitchen and slipped through into the room with the fireplace, which he shunned most of the time because Wormtail was usually in there. But he had never been afraid of raiding Wormtail's possessions, so he began opening the chest of drawers in the hope of finding a stash of biscuits or something that his guard had hidden.

And there it was. While all the other drawers were empty, one contained a single white envelope – and it was unsealed. Slowly, glancing over his shoulder, Harry picked it up and folded back the flap. Within was a thin piece of white paper. Harry took it out, careful not to get even a smudge of dirt on it, and looked at it.

It was a cheque, written out to a man named Frank Bryce, and at the bottom it was stamped Malfoy Estate. Harry hungrily read through the cheque. It was in muggle pounds, and there was just enough money for about a week's wages.

This was a paycheck, Harry realised. Wormtail must be going to deliver it. But a week's wages wasn't much: did Wormtail deliver such a check every week, under the name of Malfoy? But who would the Death Eaters pay regularly every week, in muggle money?

The old man. The gardener.

Quickly, his heart thumping, Harry pulled his own scuffed note out of his pocket and put it into the envelope, then position the check so that his note could not be seen. He folded the flap down and put the envelope back in the drawer, trying to place it in exactly the same position. Would Wormtail notice that it was thicker than it should be? Would he open it and check it before he delivered it?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Harry pushed the drawer closed as quietly as he could and went back into the kitchen. When Wormtail came back ten minutes later and told him he was to go back upstairs, he did so without protest. The guard glared at him suspiciously but didn't ask him why he was being so well-behaved.

All Harry could think was, _please let this work. Please. Please._

---------------------------------

A month had gone by. No one had come. Nothing had happened.

Harry had tried to escape twice in the last three weeks, once managing to get a hold of a knife and slash the curtains in a downstairs window before Wormtail caught him and stunned him, the second time attempting to dig his chains out of the wall during the full moon, but intercepted when he broke through the door of the basement.

Harry lay in until noon, though he had no way of knowing it was noon. He might as well have been living underground. He didn't have the to energy to get up or move around. He didn't even have the energy to find a book for himself.

His joints ached, and he felt ill all the time now. He never ate all of the food Wormtail brought him, even when his stomach cried out for it. He always felt too sick. And his gums were beginning to hurt too. Harry had stopped brushed his teeth because it made his gums bleed. He constantly felt as if he was on the verge of going down with a cold, but all that ever came out was a few racking coughs.

He could see the marks on the wall which recorded how long he had been in captivity. Each circle he had drawn represented a full moon, and there were nine of them. Nearly ten months: that was how long it was since he had last seen a friendly face. Curiously enough, Harry had still not got the hang of recording individual days. There were never enough marks between the full moons – sometimes twenty-seven, sometimes as few as twenty-five, when there should be twenty-eight each time. Harry couldn't figure out why he kept forgetting to record some days, but it didn't really matter, since he always had the full moon to keep track.

_It's going to kill me_, he often thought, _living in this house. Sooner or later, I'm just going to die_. He didn't want that to happen. But somehow he didn't have the anymore energy to get up and do something about it. So he lay in bed and read, or stared at the wall, in a kind of dreary, thoughtless stupor.

He was in that stupor when Wormtail brought him lunch. He saw that Harry hadn't eaten his breakfast and his nose twitched nervously.

"Y-you're not trying the hunger strike again, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

Harry didn't answer. He heard footsteps and found Wormtail looming over him.

"Are you?" Wormtail repeated.

"Go away," said Harry, turning his head towards the pillow. He wished he could just stay there forever. He wished Wormtail would leave and never come back.

"You h-have to eat something," Wormtail said. His voice didn't have the usual whine in it, that made Harry want to hit him. It sounded more commanding, as if the strength Harry had lost had been grafted onto Wormtail.

Then he felt sweaty hands take a hold of his arm and pull. He wriggled and rolled over, protesting feebly, but Wormtail, panting from the effort, kept tugging his arm until he pulled Harry right off the bed. Harry just managed to put his feet out to catch himself. Wormtail pushed him and dragged him over to the end of the bed and then made him eat. Harry could not be bothered arguing, and spooned the lumpy mash which passed for potatoes into his mouth.

"I h-hate it here as much as you, you know," Wormtail said sulkily. Harry looked up from the greyish ham he was cutting and stared at the man. Wormtail was sitting on his haunches, his hands in his lap. "I wish He h-hadn't put me here. I've always been loyal to him…" Wormtail gave a small gasp, "I never failed h-him. Not once. I even gave him you…and your parents…but still h-he never rewarded me."

Harry suddenly found he couldn't swallow the greyish ham. His hands were trembling. Wormtail had never spoken of Harry's parents before. Harry felt his heart thumping in his chest. This man had killed them, without a thought, and now he was upset because he hadn't been rewarded for it?

With an enormous effort, he managed to swallow his mouthful and say, "Why are you telling me this?"

Wormtail stood up and took the empty tray from Harry. "I thought it might make you f-feel better," he said, and then he left the room.

--------------------------------------

Harry paced the hallway after that. He didn't want to stay in the bedroom in case Wormtail came back. In the end he settled himself in the library and flicked through the books, his eyes barely taking in a single word.

He's read most of the books in this library, or at least, most of those he could. The small room seemed to be a relic from some past owner of the house, because most of the books were more than fifty years old. Harry couldn't read a lot of them, because they were in languages he didn't speak, French, Latin or German. Others were simply too difficult work for a twelve-year-old to read.

So that day, Harry picked up one of the only books he hadn't read, _The British Medical Dictionary_, without a second thought. There were some interesting diseases in there, or enough to keep in occupied for a few hours. He skipped through to the 'P's and read about pneumonia (_perhaps that explains my cough_, Harry thought) and the dangers of using a poultice.

He went on to the 'R's and read about rheumatoid arthritis ("a chronic disease of the connective tissue"), rhodopsin ("light-sensitive pigment in the eye") and rickets ("defective growth of bone due to lack of vitamin D").

Harry stopped reading and sat up a little straighter. He read through the rest of the article of Rickets. "The vitamin is formed in human skin exposed to sunlight," he read, "Children deprived of sunlight need vitamin D in their diet…not enough calcium salts are deposited in bone to make it rigid…weight-bearing bones are twisted out of shape…"

Harry put the book down and gingerly touched his wrist, as if afraid it would snap off. Children deprived of sunlight… but it probably took years to develop Rickets… all the same, he'd seen barely a flash of sunlight for ten months… and even if that wasn't long enough to get Rickets, it would be eventually… Harry began to smile to himself. He had found it: real, unquestionable proof that being stuck in this prison was going to make him sick…

He picked the book up and ran down the hall. He hammered on the brick wall of the stairway.

"Wormtail!" he yelled. "Wormtail, I need to talk to you!" shouting make his throat hurt. He'd barely used his voice for weeks.

For a while, it seemed Wormtail was simply going to ignore him. Then at last, the bricks folded away and the man's rat-like face appeared.

"W-what is it?"

"Rickets!" Harry crowed, thrusting the open book at Wormtail. "It's a disease! You get it from not enough sunlight. Listen… _growth retardation, pliability and tendency to fracture in bones…_ that's what I'm going to get if you don't let me out of this house!"

Harry was grinning from ear to ear. He let Wormtail snatch the book away from him and scan through the article, nearly cheering when Wormtail's eyes widened in shock.

"It's a m-muggle disease," Wormtail stammered. "Not…wizards…"

"That doesn't matter! Wizards can still get it! And you have to make sure I stay healthy," Harry replied, laughing at the fear on Wormtail's face. "So you've _got_ to let me go outside! You've _got_ to!"

Wormtail flicked his wand and the brick wall closed up with a snap. Harry leaned against it, feeling some of his triumph ebb away. What if Wormtail destroyed the book without showing anyone? He would still only let Harry outside if his master ordered him to…

"He has to. He's too frightened of my getting sick," Harry muttered to himself.

---------------------------------------

A day went by and Harry sat in the bedroom, too excited to think. Wormtail did not bring him any meals at all, but he barely noticed.

When Wormtail returned he looked almost angry, and he wasn't carrying a meal. Harry jumped off the bed and waited, his heart thumping, for the verdict.

"My master just laughed," Wormtail said breathlessly, lines of misery forming on his face. "When I showed h-him that muggle book."

Harry felt his stomach give a back flip. No…surely…

But Wormtail was still speaking. He took a breath and then said, "He told me you a-are to be let o-out whenever you like." He wrung his hands as he said it. "I-I'm to a-accompany you, and you're not to leave the garden."

Harry grabbed the bedpost to keep his legs from buckling. A smile spread across his face before he could stop himself. He could have hugged Wormtail – at that moment, had he been present, Harry thought him might have even hugged You-Know-Who. _I'm allowed outside…I'm allowed outside…_ ran through his head like a song.

"Now," Harry said weakly. "I want to go now."

---------------------------------

Harry had to cover his eyes as he stepped out into the sunlight. It was so bright it hurt even through his eyelids. He was sure it was brighter than he remembered sunlight ever being. It even seemed to sting his skin. That didn't come as a surprise, since he was so pale. He knew he was probably going to get very sunburned, but he didn't care, he didn't care at all.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the light. It took at least ten minutes before he could even squint, and he still shaded his eyes with his hand. He walked across the green lawn, feeling the fresh air fill his lungs, hearing the sound of the trees moving in the wind.

He wandered through the garden in a daze. The colours were so bright they made him feel strangely unreal, like a ghost. In the distance was the forbidding stone wall, but by day it seemed almost tame. It was the only barrier left. Get over that wall, and he was free…

And then he saw the old man bending over the flowerbeds not far away. Harry turned back to look at Wormtail, still standing in the doorway of the house. Harry's voice was still too hoarse to call out, so he went back to the house.

"I want to go and talk to the muggle," he said. "Am I allowed to?"

Wormtail, who was standing back in the shade of the house, nodded slowly. "H-he's got bewitchments on h-him, so don't bother a-asking him to send for help," he warned.

"I won't," Harry said, although that was exactly what he was planning to do.

He ran back across the lawn. Even running felt strange – it was so long since he'd had space to run – and he was thankful he didn't fall over. The old man raised his head when he heard Harry approached. He was thin and wrinkled, with a sour brown face and a cap pulled down to shade his eyes.

"Hello," said Harry, feeling suddenly nervous.

The old man stood up and leaned on his spade. He held out one hand for Harry to shake and Harry did so, feeling the cool dry skin against his palm. "Hello, lad," the old man said. "I'm Frank. And you must be Harry," he lowered his voice. "I got your messages, lad, don't you worry."

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TBC

A/N: Of course, Voldemort, having grown up in an orphanage, would probably know that Rickets is easily prevented by a tablespoon of cod-liver oil a day. Or a good diet of fish, eggs and milk. You don't see Voldemort with growth retardation and easily-fractured bones, no sirree. He probably makes all his Death Eaters have a spoonful of cod-liver oil every morning.

Thanks to the Penguin Medical Dictionary for the all the info on rickets!

I also want to say how WOAH happy I was to read all the long reviews I got last time. I was so happy to read your long reviews. I love you guys. And I also love you even if you didn't leave a long review. In fact, I'd love you even if you only left a tiny wee review. Please do!

Cheers


	11. Troubled Maud

A/N: It's…a very long chapter. Be prepared.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Tonks was still staring at Lupin when Maud suddenly seemed to realise what she was clinging to. She looked up at Lupin, released her stranglehold on the front of his robes and staggered back a pace, out of his arms. Looking horrified, she rubbed her muddy hands on her equally muddy dress, with the result that neither got any more or less muddy.

"Where am I?" she snarled, but it came out in a hoarse sort of whine. Her eyes flicked from Tonks sitting with teary-red eyes at the table, to Sirius standing beside Tonks, looking bemused, to Lupin, who was still holding his arms up as if he hadn't noticed yet that they were empty. He turned his face towards her.

"Maud, it's alright…" Lupin began, but she flinched away from him and he let his arms drop. The girl glared at him with a savage sneer on her dirt-smeared face.

Sirius broke the silence with the startled exclamation, "She's a werewolf?"

Lupin nodded without turning to look at him. He picked up one of the blankets that had been discarded on the ground. "It's cold in here, Maud. Put this on." The girl eyed the blanket suspiciously before she snatched it away and wrapped it around herself. Lupin smiled weakly at her but she stared coldly back at him. He asked hopefully, "Do you want anything to eat?"

"I won't eat whatever muck you give me," Maud hissed, staggering back and curling up in the corner where she had been sleeping before Sirius and Tonks had arrived. When Lupin did not even shrug at her barb, she added unpleasantly, "Wizard-lover."

Lupin turned away from her and went back to the table. "I had to bring her with me when I Apparated away. The Aurors were going to kill anyone they could capture alive…"

Sirius didn't answer. Tonks rubbed her face to try and get rid of the tears stains and said in a croaky voice, "But who _is_ she?"

Lupin glanced over at Maud, whose dull brown eyes were peering out from under the blanket, watching him.

"She's a muggle," Lupin answered. "At least, I know she's not a witch, and most of the non-magical werewolves following Greyback were muggles, not squibs. As far as I can gather, she's been living in Greyback's following since she was about ten years old. She doesn't really remember her parents."

"And you just decided to bring her home?" Sirius asked, a bit louder than he'd meant. "Like a puppy you found on the street?"

"Sirius, she was in the attack on the Orphanage! She could have _died!_" Lupin gasped, and gave a quick shudder. "And I couldn't just leave her with the other werewolves, either. It's not right for anyone to have to live among those…savages…especially not someone who didn't really have a choice…"

"I had a choice!" screeched Maud. They all turned to her as she lurched to her feet. She stood slightly hunch-backed, her shoulders lopsided, as if she was used to walking on all fours rather than on two legs. "Fenrir Greyback looked after me, and I _liked_ living with our kind! Unlike you, you stinking _traitor!_" And with this last word she hurled herself at Lupin. Sirius and Tonks sprang forward to intercede and each grabbed one of Maud's skinny brown arms.

"Stop it! Let her go!" Lupin shoved Sirius in the chest and in surprise he and Tonks released Maud, who stood shaking in front of Lupin. She was shorter than him, and her lopsided posture made her look even more like some sort of animal. Lupin turned to Maud. "I know you don't understand yet, Maud, but taking you away was for the best. You'll see…" He reached out to put his hand on Maud's shoulder, and before Sirius could grab her, she had sunk her teeth into his wrist.

Lupin drew back without making a sound, quickly wrapping his sleeve around the tooth-sized gashes, in which blood was already welling up. Sirius growled and made to grab Maud, but she hissed like a cat at him and Lupin shouted, "Stop it!" again.

"Remus, she _bit_ you!" Tonks exclaimed.

"She's exhausted. Let her get some sleep," said Lupin calmly. "Aren't there any spare rooms in the house, Sirius?"

Sirius folded his arms, but Lupin shot him a pleading look and after a moment, he sighed. "Yeah, come on," he said, beckoning to Maud. "I'll show you where you can sleep."

Maud leaned away from him. "I'm not going anywhere!"

Sirius clenched his jaw and grabbed her elbow, well out of reach of her teeth. Maud made a yowling noise but didn't kick or scream when he lead her up the stairs to the bedrooms of the Black mansion. He took out his wand and unlocked one of the smaller rooms. "Here we go. This is yours."

Maud stared at the wand. "Fenrir says magic corrupts men," she sniffed. "Turns them into human pigs."

Sirius thrust her through the door. "You bite Remus again, I'll turn _you_ into a pig," he told her, and slammed the door after her. After a moment's consideration, he locked it. He didn't want Maud running around the house on her own – it would be as bad as having Kreacher back again.

Through the closed door, Maud shouted. "You filthy wizard! Fenrir will come and get me, you wait and see!"

He got back into the kitchen just as the fire in the oven flared up green and a rapidly spinning Hestia Jones flopped out onto the kitchen floor. She saw Lupin and her face broke into a grin. "Thank God! Dumbledore's been looking everywhere for you. He was so angry at Kingsley for sending you back to the werewolves, he thought you might have been injured."

"I'm fine," Lupin smiled at her. Tonks had her wand out and was healing the wounds where Maud had bitten and scratched him. Her face still looked pink from crying.

Hestia saw Sirius standing in the doorway. "Why's everyone looking so gloomy? Remus is back, isn't he? And that scum Greyback got himself blasted by Emmeline Vance, didn't you hear? I could hug her! They're still looking for Greyback, but he's probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere…seriously, this is good news!" she said angrily when nobody showed any signs of cheering up.

"Remus brought a feral werewolf back with him," said Sirius quietly.

"_What_?"

Sirius told Hestia about Maud. Her jaw dropped lower and lower as he went on. "…and now she's sleeping upstairs, threatening to bring Greyback's wrath down on us," he finished.

Hestia scratched the back of her head and glanced at Lupin. "Well," she said in a puzzled voice. "I can't say it wasn't _tactless_, bringing her here…"

"I was _looking_ for help!" Lupin replied hotly.

"…to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Remus," Hestia finished overtop of him. "I know she can't reveal our location because of the Fidelius charm, but all the same… she's a _werewolf_…"

"So am _I_!"

"…what if she does get back to the other werewolves? She might have discovered all sorts of information about us," Hestia finished. She glanced at her watch. "Good lord, is that the time? I was supposed to be teaching my second-years ten minutes ago! _And_ I've got to tell Dumbledore I've found you and you're all right… I'll see you later, Remus, Sirius, Tonks!" And with that she took a pinch of powder out of her pocket, threw it onto the flames, and disappeared with a cry of, "Dumbledore's Office, Hogwarts!"

"Oh, no, wait!" Sirius barked, but Hestia had already vanished. He swore. He and Hestia had been tracking down wizards who sold or made large silver chains, the kind that could restrain werewolves, once again hoping to find some clue of Harry's whereabouts. Hestia had promised to go across Britain to ask a particularly dodgy wizard jeweller who he had been selling silver chains to and whether he had installed the chains himself, as the jeweller was one who specialised in illegal magical artefacts. Sirius had yet to find out whether she had discovered anything.

A few minutes later, the fire once again glowed green to announce the arrival by floo powder of Albus Dumbledore, who climbed gracefully out of the oven, his long silver beard draped over one should. He straightened his pointed hat, then gave a short bow to Sirius and Tonks. "Remus," he said, taking Lupin's hand and shaking his whole arm. "Thanks goodness. When Kingsley told me you'd gone back to the other werewolves, I feared the worst."

He turned to Tonks and Sirius. "Though both of you have obviously been looking after my Professor very well, I would ask you to excuse yourselves from the room for a few minutes. I have many things that I must speak about to him. In private."

Tonks opened her mouth to protest, but Sirius tugged at the sleeve of her robe and indicated that there was no use arguing. He didn't really want to hang around with Dumbledore anyway. They both headed up the stairs.

Sirius tried to make light conversation. "Why's the house so empty, anyway?" he asked. "I thought the Order was supposed to make good use of the place."

Tonks shrugged noncommitedly. They passed the room where Maud was sleeping but there was no sound from inside.

They ended up sitting in the hall like a pair of children who had been sent to their rooms without supper, waiting for Dumbledore to finished talking to Lupin. Tonks didn't say a word. Sirius thought he knew what was bothering her, but he didn't have a clue how to reassure love-struck young women. He was beginning to understand why Lupin had brought Maud with him – and he knew it had nothing to do with what Tonks thought – but he couldn't be sure yet.

After about half an hour, Lupin appeared around the corner. "You can come out now, Sirius, Albus is gone," he joked, but his face was looking pale and strained. The newly healed cuts on his face were shining pink against his blood-drained skin.

"What was so important that he had to say it in secret?" Sirius asked, pulling Tonks to her feet.

"He says that if Greyback is alive I'm in danger. He wants me somewhere safe," Lupin shrugged.

"And? It can't have been just that."

Lupin glanced at Sirius and answered reluctantly. "He said… Harry has been seen in a vision, and he seems to be alive and healthy."

Sirius jumped as if he had been electrocuted. Even Tonks seemed to snap out of her gloomy expression and look interested. Sirius gaped. "_What?_ By who? Was there any clue? Did they find out where he might be?"

Lupin shook his head. "Nothing…nothing that could help us find him. Just the news that he is alive."

"But…but they must have…surely…"

Lupin shrugged sadly. "I tried to get more out of Dumbledore, but he said there was nothing more. He just said didn't want to tell you himself, he wanted me to tell you instead."

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Dumbledore had recommended that Lupin stay in Grimmauld Place for as long as possible, and that he should not go out in public without at least two Order members accompanying him. This was for Lupin's protection against other werewolves.

"You heard what Maud said," Lupin sighed quietly. "I'm a traitor to my own kind. I told the Aurors about the attack on the orphanage. Even if Greyback is dead – and considering they haven't found his body yet, I'd say he isn't – there are still plenty of his followers who fled from the orphanage or weren't there that night. They'll be after me as soon as they find out where I am."

However, having Lupin living in the Order of the Phoenix headquarters meant having Maud live there as well, and nobody – absolutely nobody – liked this arrangement at all.

It was worse than having Kreacher back: at least Kreacher sometimes did as he was told. Maud had yet to take an order from anyone, and usually did the opposite. Even after Lupin convinced her to have a bath so that she did not look so muddy, there was something undeniably animal about the way she slouched down the hallways, her eyes constantly flickering to all the escape routes. She also had a way about her of saying the worst thing at the worst possible time.

"Don't pretend to be nice to me, I hate you too," she spat at Tonk when Tonks finally got up the courage to try and talk to her. Tonks did not reply, but the teacup she had been offering to Maud smashed in her hand because she was gripping it so hard.

The fact that Maud constantly whined that she wanted to go back to Greyback and the other werewolves was also a source of worry for Lupin and Dumbledore. There was a steady stream of Order members passing through Grimmauld Place most days, and though Lupin did his best to keep Maud out of the way, she never stayed put when told to stay put, and she had a habit of walking in on conversations that were supposed to be secret. No one could tell whether she understood what she heard, or would remember the faces she saw, but the fact was that no one wanted her recollective abilities tested if she somehow made her way into Death Eater hands. But of course, she always kicked up a fuss when told to leave a room, insulted anyone who attempted to talk to her, and tried to bite anyone who touched her, so keeping her from learning anything about the Order was easier said than done.

Being a werewolf, her bites were no laughing matter. Lupin was the only one who dared go near her, so he was the one who ended up with bruises from Maud's fists and cuts from her fingernails. Seeing this abuse, Sirius was ready to strangle Maud with his bare hands, and probably would not have been able to help himself if Lupin hadn't been there to protect Maud. The only good thing that came out of Maud's constant abuse of Lupin was that Tonks was the best person in the house for healing small wounds, and having Lupin come to her for medical attention had cheered her up considerably, despite the fact that Maud had taken to taunting her whenever they were in the same room together.

However, after barely three days, everyone had had enough.

"Give her to the Ministry, Remus," Hestia complained. "They'll lock her up where she belongs."

"Just let her go," Mundungus Fletcher suggested. "There's nothing she's seen that's of importance. Dump her in a forest somewhere and let her run wild."

"_Please_ Remus," Arthur Weasley begged. "She's driving all of us crazy. Put her somewhere and leave her there. Sooner or later she's going to kill you, too."

Lupin protested feebly, and tried to make light of Maud's attempts to gnaw her way through locked doors, and ignored the complaints, but he could not deny that Maud was dangerous, and infuriating, and beginning to make perfectly stable people want to kill her. So he rented out a house in the London suburbs, had Kingsley bewitch it to keep out intruders, packed up his belongings and moved there with Maud. Everyone in Grimmauld Place breathed a sigh of relief, and then felt guilty about it because now Lupin was dealing with Maud all by himself.

Sirius went to visit him as often as he could. About five days after the attack of the orphanage, Lupin was still looking as if he had just come out of a fierce battle. He was not eager to talk about what he had been doing with the other werewolves for all those months.

"It wasn't all bad," he said. "I mean, I hated… but I did get to visit some lovely little villages, when Greyback first started planning his attack on the orphanage. We were supposed to be looking for villages with a lot of children, you see… but I did spend some time in a nice place called Little Hangleton, charming people… it wasn't all bad," he finished rather lamely.

Sirius could tell Lupin was doing his utmost to avoid talking about the rest of his experiences, and decided to leave off his questioning for another time. Deciding that fresh air was good medicine for troubled souls, he suggested they go to Diagon Alley to replace the clothes Lupin had lost when he had left the other werewolves behind.

"That's a good idea," Lupin said brightly. "I need to buy Maud some proper clothes. She can't keep wearing that horrid dress forever."

Sirius sighed, as his main intention had been to get Lupin out of the house and away from Maud. "Moony, you don't have any money to buy Maud clothes," he pointed out.

"Yes, well I'll just…I'll…"

"Look, how about this for a plan? We'll lock Maud in the house, you come with me to Diagon Alley, I'll buy you a new pair of robes _and_ any clothes that Maud needs, and you'll have a relaxing time in the fresh air without worrying about whether or not that girl has set fire to her bedroom yet."

"Sirius, no, I can't accept charity – and besides, Albus said I wasn't to go out without at least two members of the Order –"

"I'll invite Tonks along too, then," Sirius said firmly.

And after a few more minutes of protest, Lupin agreed that leaving the house would do him good.

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Hestia and Tonks were waiting for them outside Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour. Tonks' hair remained grey and limp, and she was fiddling idly with the remains of a sundae as Lupin and Sirius approached. Hestia was leaning back in her chair, reading the _Daily Prophet_. She shut it hurriedly as she saw them and waved to attract their attention.

"Hello!" Hestia called. "Surprised to see me?"

Sirius pulled up a chair beside Tonks, who shuffled around to make room for him and Lupin.

"Yes, actually," Sirius replied. He had written to Hestia asking to meet her so he could find out what she had discovered from the jeweller who made silver chain, but he had not expected her so soon. "Why aren't you teaching?"

"The school term finished yesterday," Lupin answered quietly, before Hestia could open her mouth. He was resting his chin on his hand and staring wistfully down the street into the distance.

"My last day teaching," Hestia added happily, putting her newspaper on the ground beside her. "Not that I won't miss it, but I'm glad to give the post back to you, Remus. I've had enough of the Weasley twins to last me a lifetime. Lucky their sister isn't going in that direction is all I can say. Shall we get started, then?"

Lupin was still gazing down the street, but he seemed more alert. "What's going on down there?" He asked, pointing to a crowd gathered in the street. It was just outside one of the many shops on Diagon Alley that had been abandoned because its owners had vanished or been killed by Death Eaters. The crowd seemed to have just streamed out of the store and were mingling in the warm summery air.

"I dunno," replied Sirius, raising his head to get a look at the crowd. He turned back to Hestia. "Tell me you got some information out of the jeweller."

Hestia sighed and shook her head. "All I did was meet a lot of shady characters who didn't seem to have a clue what I was talking about. I…" she stopped as Lupin suddenly pushed back his chair, stood up and walked past her. "Remus, where are you going?"

"I want to know what that crowd's about," Lupin replied over his shoulder.

Sirius rolled his eyes and got up to follow him. "Come on," he nudged Tonks' shoulder and she got out of her chair as well. Lupin was walking quickly and reached the crowd ahead of them. Sirius noticed that many people in the group were clutching small yellow posters, and by the way they were standing so quietly, they were listening to someone.

Just as Lupin reached the group, there was the pop of someone Disapparating and the crowd began to break up. He tapped a large warlock on the shoulder. "Excuse me, I was just wondering what the gathering is for?"

The warlock turned to him. "Public address by the Head of the Department," he said, looking down at Lupin without much interest.

"The Head of what Department?" Lupin pressed.

"The Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," said a wizard standing next to the warlock, who wore a wide-brimmed grey hat. "Dolores Umbridge. I'm afraid you just missed it, she's gone."

"I see," said Lupin coldly. "And why would she feel the need to address the public here? Surely she should be using one of the Ministry meeting halls?"

"Didn't you hear? The Minister of Magic banned her from organising a rally to promote her new anti-werewolf legislation," the wizard said angrily, his cheeks flushing red. "Blatant corruption is what I call it! Minister Moody is too afraid of losing his position in the Ministry, so he's bringing down an iron fist on the important work of decent, community-minded citizens like Dolores Umbridge!"

"I see," said Lupin evenly, as there was not really anything he could say to this angry speech.

"Here, now," said the warlock, squinting at Lupin's face. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"No, I don't think so…"

The warlock was clutching one of the yellow posters in his hand. The grey-hatted wizard snatched the piece of paper off him and stared at it. The indignant red flush faded from his cheeks and his face turned the same grey as his hat.

"Blimey," he said, looking from the poster to a slightly confused Lupin. "It's you! You bloody –"

This was the moment Sirius and Tonks caught up with Lupin, just in time to see the grey-hatted wizard shout, "_Werewolf!_" and point his wand at Lupin's face. There was bang, Sirius roared, Tonks shrieked, Lupin gave a yell of surprise and pain and put his hands to his face, and the crowd surged in alarm. Tonks and Sirius, wands out, leapt to Lupin's aid. Sirius grabbed the back of his robes and pulled him out of the crowd before he was crushed in the confusion. Tonks jumped in front of Lupin just as the grey-hatted wizard, who had been knocked sideways by the warlock, regained his balance and raised his wand to cast a second curse.

"_Protego!_" she shouted and the wizard's curse rebounded and hit the warlock, who bellowed and stumbled sideways again. Sirius grabbed Tonks as well, and she grabbed the yellow poster as the wizard dropped it in his hurry to avoid the warlock.

Sirius pulled them both out of the crowd. Lupin was still clutching his face, covering his eyes with his hands. Angry shouts were rising behind them, so he and Tonks each took one of Lupin's elbows and steered him away as fast as they could.

"Why did he attack him?" Tonks was seething. "Remus didn't even have his wand out!"

"I don't know…he shouted 'werewolf'…" Sirius looked over his shoulder and quickened his pace. "Let's get out of here, I think some of them are going to start chasing us…where's Hestia?"

"I don't know! I thought she followed us!" Tonks squinted at the table where they had been sitting outside the ice cream parlour. Hestia's newspaper was still on the ground by her chair, but Hestia herself was nowhere to be seen.

"There she is," Sirius saw Hestia's black hair across the street. She was standing in the shadow of a large shop sign, talking to someone. It seemed to be a small man in ragged brown robes with a grizzled, unshaven face. Sirius steered Lupin in that direction, but before they got near enough to see the man's face properly, he had stepped away and vanished around a corner.

"Hestia!"

"What happened?" Hestia hurried over, goggling at the two of them leading the third like some kind of hide-and-seek game. "What's wrong with Lupin?"

"My eyes!" Lupin said, slightly muffled through his hands. "That's what's wrong with me!"

"They _are_ following us," Tonks said nervously, looking over her shoulder. "They've got their wands out."

"Come on, in here," Hestia grabbed a handful of Lupin's robes and pulled him into the nearest shop, Florish and Blotts. Sirius and Tonks were dragged in after him. Hestia closed the door after them and she and Sirius peered through the window.

"Either they've decided its not worth it, or they didn't see us," she said after a couple of minutes. She turned back to where Tonks had dropped the yellow poster and sat Lupin down on a seat behind the counter. The storeowner was flapping back and forth while Tonks tried to get Lupin to lower his hands.

"What's going on?" The owner kept asking. "What's happening?"

"He's been hexed, you git, now get out of the way," Sirius snarled and pushed passed. "What was it, Moony?"

"Ow, ow, ow!" Lupin yelped as Tonks, wincing in sympathy, tried again to see what damage the curse had done. "It's just a conjunctivitis curse, at least, I think that's all it is…_ow!_…but it feels like my eyeballs have swelled up, I'm not taking my hands away in case they fall out…"

Lupin probably meant this last bit as a joke, but Tonks went into such a flutter of panic when he said it that Sirius had to pry her off Lupin before she hurt herself or someone else. He knew a bit about the conjunctivitis curse, and that it wasn't going to do any lasting damage, but it would certainly hurt a lot until they fixed it.

"I can't remember the counter-curse, Tonks, you'll have to go and look it up," he told her firmly, as much to give her something useful to do as anything else.

"Look it up? Where?" Tonks squeaked.

"We're in a bookstore, Tonks! It'll be here _somewhere!_"

"Oh…" Tonks grabbed the owner of the shop and the two of them went off in search of a book on minor curses and hexes.

While she was gone, Hestia and Sirius tried to get Lupin to lower his hands, but he continued to refuse until they had found the counter-curse. Greenish-yellowish pus was now oozing out from between his fingers.

"Ow! No, come on, Sirius, I'm fine…now tell me what's going on…_ow! _…that crowd was listening to a speech from Dolores Umbridge, he said something about her new anti-werewolf legislation. They'd just come out of the shop because Minister Moody has…_ow!_…banned her from using the Ministry meeting halls."

"He's _what_?" said Sirius. "Why?"

"Because she's a disgusting little cretin, I suppose," snarled Lupin, his voice still slightly muffled by his hands. "Anyway, my question is, how did that man know I was a werewolf?"

"This is how," said Hestia gloomily, picking up the yellow poster which Tonks had dropped on the counter. Tonks and the bookstore owner had returned now and were leafing through a thick book on counter-curses. Hestia read the heading at the top of the poster, "_Werewolves among us: faces to look out for in your community. Don't let your family become a victim! Avoid these ministry-registered werewolves_," she turned the poster around so that Sirius and Tonks could see it.

"What? What else does it say?" asked Lupin.

"It's got pictures of about twelve people," said Sirius heavily. "You're at the bottom. _Remus J. Lupin: Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: one known victim_…oh God, Moony, they mean Harry! And they've got your address and everything!"

"What? – _ow_ – Not my new address?"

"No don't worry, it's your old one, from months ago…but surely the Ministry keeps tabs on you?"

Lupin nodded, slightly awkwardly with his hands on his face. "They usually record every place of residence. They'll find out where I'm living before long…not before they printed those posters, thank goodness. So that man recognised me off the poster?"

"And just attacked you on a street!" said Sirius bitterly.

"It's just because of the attack on the orphanage," Lupin grimaced. "I don't blame people for being paranoid about werewolves. Next time it could be Hogwarts…"

Sirius shook his head. "This is ridiculous! This is anarchy! People taking the law into their own hands…Minister Moody may be an Auror, but that doesn't mean he should be running a military government. Attacking an unarmed man on the street…"

"Well, if I turned around and saw Fenrir Greyback on the street, I'd probably attack him too," shrugged Hestia.

There was a loud bang as Tonks slammed the book on hexes shut, accidentally crushing the fingers of the storeowner. Her cheeks had turned bright pink as she rounded on Hestia and shouted, _"Remus isn't Fenrir Greyback!_"

Hestia blinked for a moment. She mumbled, "I didn't mean that…I just meant from that wizard's point of view…"

"Here, I've got the counter-curse," snapped Tonks, thrusting the book back at the storeowner, who was sucking on his crushed fingers. She strode over to Lupin. "Take your hands away, for goodness' sake," she ordered, and he did so meekly. It did not look as if his eyes were swelling up or falling out; they were just bright red and weeping a lot of pus. Tonks pointed her wand at Lupin and muttered something, and a moment later, the pus began to disappear and the red faded away.

"Oh, that's better," sighed Lupin, rubbing his eyes.

"Right," said Sirius, taking a long look at Tonks to make sure she was not about to explode. He turned to the storeowner, who flinched as if frightened he was going to be smashed with another book. "Do you have a floo connection?"

"It's in the back," said the owner, pointing at a door behind the counter. "But it's not for customer use…though in this case, I suppose…" he added when Tonks turned to glare at him.

"Where are you going?" Lupin asked.

"I'm not going anywhere. _You're_ going home," said Sirius. "Your new house has been connected to the floo network, hasn't it?"

"Yes, but…"

"No buts," said Sirius. "The last thing we need is for you to get lynched by a mob of hooligans wandering around worshipping Dolores Umbridge. Then we'll have no one to get rid of Maud for us. Go home and we'll get you the clothes you need. Come on."

Hestia and Tonks watched him frogmarch Lupin through door behind the counter of Florish and Blotts. There was the whoosh of Floo powder coming in effect, and Sirius returned a few minutes later, dusting soot off his hands.

"And you," said Sirius, eying Tonks. "I need to talk to you about Remus."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tonks asked sharply, raising her head.

"Sit down, for God's sake shut up, and let's get a few things straight about him and Maud."

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TBC

A/N: Ok, I have an important announcement. I have said (possibly several times now) that Doloroes Umbridge is going to play an important part in this story.

This is no longer true.

Up until about half an hour ago, Dolores Umbridge _was_ an important part of this story. In fact, she had an entire subplot in this story. I had three chapters written that were riddled with her. But as I finished the third chapter, I realised that Dolores Umbridge and I had some major artistic differences. Her subplot was no longer a vital part of the fic. And it was an enormously wasteful subplot. So I have taken a large carving knife, and she has been cut from the story.

She has been mentioned briefly in this chapter: she will probably not be mentioned again.

I'm sorry for those of you who were sharpening your pitchforks in preparation for her arrival. I feel extremely stupid for making this last-minute adjustment. But trust me, this is for the best – it would have taken at least another chapter to resolve Umbridge's subplot, and this way, we can return to Harry faster. I'm certain that is good news.

Once again, I apologise to those of you who were promised Umbridge. I hope I can make it up to you.

In other news, thank you so much to all reviewers.

Cheers!


	12. Wanted: A Werewolf

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"Will you stop moping about, snapping at people and acting like someone's broken your heart?" Sirius began.

Tonks's hair flared up gloriously red and colour flooded into her cheeks. "Oh, I'm just acting, am I?" she said furiously. Hestia stepped away a bit, alarmed. "Doesn't it count as a broken heart if the person you love has just chosen a horrid – stinking – ugly little werewolf over you? _Doesn't it_?"

"Tonks…" Sirius began, but Tonks overrode him.

"Because just because _you're_ going to remain a bachelor the rest of your life doesn't mean the rest of us want to, Sirius!" cried Tonks, balling her fists.

"Hear, hear!" chimed in Hestia, then quickly withdrew when Tonks shot her a look of pure venom.

"Tonks!" Sirius took her arms and before she could wriggle free, he forced her to sit down in the seat Lupin had so recently vacated. "Sit!"

"Don't you…!"

"Sit and _listen_ for five minutes!" Sirius clapped his hand over her mouth. "Remus is _not_ in love with Maud."

He removed his hand to see how Tonks would react to this, but her frown only deepened. "Don't be so stupid. He spends every minute of the day with her."

"Tonks, do you really think that _anyone_ who had more than _two_ brain cells to rub together could_ possibly_ fall in love with something as wretched as Maud, _especially_ if they spent every minute of the day with her?" Sirius leaned against the counter, rolling his eyes at her. "Just hush up for a moment. Remus has just spent about three months in the company of some of the most cruel, low-life werewolves in Britain. He's had to befriend them. He had to pretend that he's _one_ of them. How would _you_ feel if you went to a convention of other people with Metamorphmagus powers, and you found out that they were all Death Eaters?"

Tonks continued to frown, but after a moment she said slowly, "I'd guess…I'd wonder if I wasn't something like that too…"

"Exactly," said Sirius. "We all know Remus is one of the most kind-hearted people around, but he can't always see that. He's hardly ever met any other nice werewolves. He's starting to wonder if _he_ isn't a cruel low-life as well. He's starting to think that maybe _all_ werewolves are monsters, including him. Heck, he's _always_ been paranoid about that."

Tonks nodded, then she tensed again. "But what's Maud got to do with all that?" she asked.

"Remus is trying to redeem her," said Sirius patiently. "He thinks he can see the good in her that the rest of us can't. If he can turn her from a bitter, feral little hag into a normal, functioning member of society, it will _prove_ to him that not all werewolves come from the same mould – and it will prove to him that _he_ isn't a monster at heart either. So stop thinking you've been shoved aside in favour of Maud, because you _haven't_. Have some sympathy for Remus. In fact, perhaps he might realise that he doesn't need Maud to be a good person – he's got you to show him that. Go and tell him you love him."

"He doesn't care…"

"Rubbish. He's just a wuss," Sirius folded his arms. "Keep telling him until he listens."

"Alright," said Tonks. Her bright red hair slowly faded and settled on a soft, glowing pink. "Yeah, alright," she got up. "You really think…I mean, he's always…"

"Tonks, he doesn't just love you, he _needs_ you. He just doesn't know it."

She ran her hand through her hair, which was now shimmering white-gold, and shook her head. "Then I'll go now. You guys can finish shopping without me, right?"

"Probably," said Sirius sarcastically.

"See you, then," Tonks smiled. "I better not use the floo powder again, I think we've encroached on this poor man long enough," she waved to the bookshop owner. "Thanks, Sirius. I didn't think of it like that…"

And with that, she walked past Sirius and out into the sun.

Sirius turned to Hestia.

"Now you," he said.

Hestia raised an eyebrow. "You're going to ask me who was the man I was talking to just before, when you two were pulling Remus out of that mess?"

"That's exactly what I was going to ask."

Hestia took his arm and steered him outside where the bookstore owner couldn't hear them. She spoke in a hissing whisper. "I got up to follow you, when that man just appeared in front of me. I know him: he was one of the fellows I met when I was going to talk to that jeweller. He's a werewolf, he's in with Greyback's lot – if Greyback is still alive – and he didn't talk to me last time. But when he came up to me before he said, 'You can tell Black that if he wants his boy back, he'll come to meet me.'"

Sirius stared at her for a moment, as his heart began to race. He realised he was now holding Hestia's arm, so tightly he could feel her bones under his fingers. He released his grip. His mouth was dry as he spoke, "Where? Where does he want to meet?"

"Here," Hestia put her hand in the pocket of her robes and took out an ice cream napkin with an address scribbled on it. "Corner of Ruts Road and Wyndham Avenue. I think I know where that is. He wants to meet tonight, at midnight."

"Midnight? Do you think its some kind of ambush?"

Hestia frowned for a moment. "I don't think so…I get the feeling he's acting mostly for himself, and I don't see what he'd have to gain from killing or kidnapping us…"

"He's a werewolf. He's in with Greyback."

Hestia shrugged. "And their lot is in total disarray, so we haven't got anything to fear from them. No, I think the only thing we've got to worry about in that quarter is Remus finding out. It wouldn't really be very kind to him if he knew we were fraternising with the people he hates so vehemently."

Sirius nodded. He suddenly realised he was only holding Hestia's arm because his legs were beginning to buckle. He put his hand on the window of the Florish and Blotts to steady himself. _Harry_…_this could be it_…But he couldn't get ahead of himself. They'd had so many false hopes before. This could be nothing more than another dead end.

"Come on, we did promise Remus some clothes," Hestia said. "We'll figure out what to do as we walk."

"What to do?" Sirius asked, and there was the faintest growl of excitement in his voice. "We're going to go and meet this guy, that's what we're going to do."

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Lupin's new house was a single-storey place in the monotonous and close-knit quarters of the London suburbs. The last rays of the sun were hidden behind low banks of cloud on the horizon as it came into view, looking like every other house on the street. A muggle walking his dog in the late evening passed them on the street, wrinkling his nose at them in the way that suggested full-length robes were a social disruption in _this_ neighbourhood.

The wards around the house went off as soon as Hestia and Sirius approached the front door. A thin, high ringing filled their ears, and an invisible wall prevented their feet from moving any closer. The muggle that ad passed them was nearly wrenched off his feet as his dog took off on the opposite direction to escape the high screech. A moment later, the front door of the house opened and Lupin waved to them, though whatever words he was mouthing could not be heard over the ringing. He disappeared for a moment, and the ring was cut off.

"Sorry about that," Lupin called, reappearing in the doorway and ushering them into the house. "Kingsley made the wards for me but he seems to have taken liberty to assume I won't be having any visitors at all. Albus is coming around in a couple of days to set some proper alarms. I've shut them off now, I'm sick of that screeching every time the postman drops a flyer in my letterbox."

Inside, the house had the distinctive barren look and clean smell of a home that has not been lived in very long. Tonks was sitting on the couch, and Sirius judged by the fact that both she and Lupin were smiling that something had gone right between them for once.

"Clothes," Sirius explained, holding out the packages in his arms. Hestia was rotating her finger in her ear, trying to restore her hearing after the deafening ringing. Lupin took the packages as Sirius explained each one. "Those ones are for you. Then there's a dress for Maud, a coat for Maud, new socks for Maud…I did my best to get the ugliest of everything but Hestia seems to think it's kinder to treat her like a real person."

"What? Did you say my name?" Hestia said, loudly because she still couldn't hear properly.

"Thank you," Lupin grinned, unwrapping one of the packages to reveal a nest of brightly coloured socks. "How much was it all? I'll see if I can find a few sickles…"

Sirius quickly interjected. "You can pay us back later," he knew perfectly well that Lupin had not a sickle to spare. Even the house had been a gift from Dumbledore's coffers.

Lupin gave him an exasperated look but did not protest. "Why don't you stay for dinner, then?"

"Er…" Sirius glanced quickly at Hestia. If they were planning to meet Hestia's strange contact that night, they wanted to be away at once. Since they'd never actually been to the corner where he planned to meet them, they had decided that it would be best to walk the way there, so that they weren't Apparating straight into a trap.

"We're a bit busy tonight," Hestia said casually. They had both agreed that until they knew what they were dealing with, Lupin wasn't to know they were meeting other werewolves.

"Oh? Where?" Tonks asked at once, leaning over the back of the couch. Her hair was blonde and curly and she was twisting one strand around her forefinger.

Sirius racked his brains and opened his mouth to make some excuse, but Hestia beat him to it. "We're going on a date!" She invented hurriedly. Sirius had to control the sudden urge to bang his head on the nearest wall. Or perhaps bang Hestia's head against the nearest wall.

"That's great," Lupin smiled. Before he could say anything else, there came a loud wail as Maud appeared in the doorway and saw the packages in Lupin's arms. Her lank brown hair had been cut to remove most of the tangles, but she seemed to have acquired new tangles very quickly. She snatched one of the newly opened packages off the couch and held up her new dress.

"I'm not wearing this!" She yelled, throwing the dress to the floor. "I don't want your horrid clothes!" She fled, still wailing, down the hall and they heard the door slam in some distant part of the house.

"Oh, dear," Lupin sighed dramatically. "I'll go and deal with it," he hurried into the hallway after her.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "I tried poisoning her this afternoon," she said in a loud stage whisper. "But she seems to be able to smell it."

"We better get going," Sirius added as he heard Lupin patiently asking Maud to unlock the door of the bathroom, followed by what sounded suspiciously like the contents of a medicine cabinet being hurled against a wall.

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The waning quarter-moon could not be seen through the thick clouds of London smog. The street lamps provided illumination enough, along with the headlights of cars on the road, careering down the street and throwing up old chip packets and soda bottles in their wake. Hestia and Sirius walked side by side down the pavement, staying within the light of the street lamps wherever possible. Both of them were full to the brim with nerves, and read to Disapparate at the first sign of trouble.

"Here we go, Wyndham Avenue," Hestia pointed at the street-sign above her head, "I thought Avenues were supposed to have trees on them?"

"I guess not this one," Sirius looked up and down the street. Dilapidated old buildings lined it and the gutters were beginning to crumble. The cars that had been frequently passing them seemed to have retired for the night. Sirius looked up at the sign above their heads with the two arms, reading _Ruts Road_ and _Wyndham Avenue. _

"At least there's no cover for an ambush," said Hestia, indicating the empty lot on the corner.

They waited for about twenty minutes, and then Sirius heard faint shuffling footsteps and his head whipped around. The hunched shape of a man in a long cloak with a grizzled face had appeared in the next streetlight on Wyndham Avenue. With the light directly above him, his features cast elongated shadows on his face, making his cheeks and forehead look like yellow pools in a black swamp.

"Sirius Black?" came a low voice from somewhere around the man's mouth.

"Me," said Sirius, trying to keep his voice forceful.

The man turned around and began to shuffle away down the pavement. Sirius and Hestia glanced at each other before they padded after him, keeping a few paces behind, both of them unconsciously leaving their hands close to their wands. The man did not speak or turn to check that they were following him as he lead them down the street, turned into a side alley, then down another alley, then down another, and another, until Sirius was not sure he would be able to find his way out if they had to run for it.

At last the man stopped outside a set of stairs leading down to a door sunken into the pavement, the entrance to a basement in the shabby building in front of them. He went down the steps, took out a key and unlocked the door, then went inside.

Hestia and Sirius paused at the top of the steps. There was no light in the doorway, just a rectangular black hole. There could be anything in there.

"Maybe we should…?" Hestia whispered, but she seemed unsure of how to finish the sentence.

Sirius drew his wand and whispered, "_Lumos_." With the soft glow of his wand tip to guide him, he headed down the steps and through the doorway, with Hestia following close behind, raising her own wand.

----------------------------------------------

The first thing Sirius noticed was the smell. It was fetid; a sickly, rotting smell which he recognised from his old Auror days. The smell of live flesh, an infected wound gone bad, the smell of someone who was dying, slowly and painfully.

He raised his wand, urging the light at the tip to glow brighter, and as Hestia's wand-light joined his, the room was illuminated.

It was a small room, and it was filthy. Papers lay scattered among discarded sheets stained with blood and bodily fluids. A decrepit table in the corner was leaning was if it was about to collapse, and the walls seemed to be constructed of mildew and bare plaster. The man who had led them to this place was lighting a candle, which spluttered into life and added its own yellow glow to the light from their wands.

In the centre of the room was a large padded chair, big enough for two normal people, its seams beginning to split and one broke leg supported by a stack of old magazines. Sitting in the chair was Fenrir Greyback.

Sirius had heard a lot about Fenrir Greyback – from Lupin, from the _Prophet_, from the Aurors who had fought him – but he had never actually met him before. Photographs did not do justice to his cruel, whiskered face. He was a large man, with a wide chest and thick, hairy arms. Sirius could see the hair on his arms because he had naked from the waist up, except for a swath of sheets tied around his stomach. Blood and yellowish pus was seeping through the makeshift bandages, and Greyback seemed to wince a little with every breath. He did not look as if he was strong enough to even stand up. His hands, each finger ending in a long yellow nail, clutched at the arms of the chair.

"You came," said Greyback. His voice was a rasping bark.

"I hear you have information I might be interested in," said Sirius coolly. The smell from Greyback's wounds made him want to gag. Hestia was standing back a little, as if she did not want to move more than a few feet from their exit. "About my Godson, Harry Potter."

Greyback gave a coarse chuckle that turned into a painful cough. "Course I do," he said. "They needed my consultation, see? They knew the boy was a werewolf, but they didn't know how to control him. I told them to piss off, don't control him at all, I said. But they offered a lot for my services, so I helped them eventually, silver chains and all that."

"You're talking about the Death Eaters?" Hestia asked. She could not keep a slight tremor out of her voice. Like Sirius, she was having trouble keeping the contents of her stomach where they were.

"Harry's safe?" Sirius interrupted.

"Yeah, I'm talking about Death Eaters," rasped Greyback, and he spat to one side. "Wizards. All rotten. All stupid. But I don't mind using a wand when I need to, and I don't mind dealing with wizards when they give me something in return," his eyes gleamed for a moment in the candlelight as he looked at Sirius. "As for whether the kid's safe or not, I wouldn't have a clue. Never saw him, myself. But they seemed pretty eager to keep him alive at the time – they were setting up a nice cosy house for him, by the sound of it."

"And you can tell us where that is?" Sirius asked. He kept his voice clear but his hand shook for a moment, and the light shining from the end of his wand wavered.

"Maybe, maybe," Greyback shrugged, and winced as the movement pulled at his wound. "They didn't tell me _where_ exactly, but I listened more than they thought, and it wouldn't be too hard to figure out _where_ from the information I gathered."

"Then tell us," Sirius said. "And let us get out of this stink-hole."

"Wait your patience," Greyback grinned, enjoying his guest's anxiety. "You want what I got, you got what I want. Trade one for the other, that's fair."

"What do you want?" Hestia demanded. "Information on the Ministry? Planning to assassinate Minister Moody? I think you'd be better off going for that foul Umbridge woman, she's the one making trouble for werewolves."

Greyback shook his shaggy head. "Nah, nah, my boys haven't got the strength to pull off something like that. And truth be told, I'm not going to last more than a few days anyway. I'm not going to worry about politics before I die. The only thing I want now is revenge." For a moment, his eyes glinted and his voice no longer sounded weak and sickly.

"Remus Lupin," Greyback continued. He was panting now, as if the effort of speaking was costing him more strength than he had. "The stinking rat who sold us out to the Ministry. He makes me sick, snuggling up to wizards – betraying his own bloody kind! Well, I'm sitting here full of spell-holes because of that filth. I want to see him beg me for mercy, beg me for death, I want to see him strung up from my rafters, so if I have to cark it, I can die with that happy image."

Sirius had gone very silent. Every muscle in his body had tensed, as if ready to leap forward and fight. He couldn't even breath, all he could feel was blood rushing to his head, and the corners of his vision seemed to be going red.

"You…" Sirius growled. In his extensive vocabulary of curses and swears, he could not think of any word harsh enough to describe Greyback. "You…"

Hestia grabbed a hold of Sirius' elbow before he could move. "Mr Greyback, if that is all we can offer you, I think our business hear it finished," she said, her voice as calm and dignified as she could manage.

Greyback grimaced. "What's the matter? Suddenly got cold feet?"

Sirius was seething, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. "You loathsome scum, you disgusting, low-life…"

"Sirius!" Hestia jabbed him in the ribs with her wand. "Shut up."

Greyback grinned, revealing teeth filed to a point. "Ah, I thought that might be it. You're all close and cuddly with that traitor, aren't you? Well, I'm not asking you to bring him to me tied in a sack. I just want to know where to find him, see? Send my boys over to have a little _chat_."

"You gruesome son-of-a-"

"_Sirius!_" Hestia shook his arm. She had never seen anyone channel so much hate into a face. He was barely even recognisable as Sirius Black because his expression was so twisted. She turned back to Greyback. ""I think we're a bit reluctant to offer you any information about Lupin, Mr Greyback. Surely there's something else you'd prefer? For instance," she glanced at the stinking wound under his bandages, "I could probably get you a bed in St Mungo's with no questions asked. Then you'd wouldn't have to…how did you say?…_cark it_ at all."

Grey back shook his head again, and gave his rasping laugh. "And get myself thrown into Azkaban as soon as I step foot out the door? I'd rather be dead," he spat again. "I promise you, what I could tell you will lead you straight to your Potter boy. But I want Remus Lupin," he snarls, "and I won't take anything else."

"Then there is no reason for us to remain here," said Sirius, the fury finally fading from his face, to Hestia's relief. He turned and strode to the door, clutching his lit wand by his side. Hestia hurried after him, glad to turn her back on the awful smell and Greyback's ugly, mocking face.

As Sirius pushed open the door, Greyback called after him.

"One way or another, Black, I'll get him. It's your loss if you don't take my offer," he began to laugh again, a choking, painful sound.

Sirius slammed the door behind Hestia and they slipped away down the alley.

---------------------------------

"Sirius."

Sirius was walking so fast Hestia had to jog to keep up with his long legs.

"Sirius!"

She was plucking at his cloak, trying to slow him down. He ignored her.

"_Sirius!_"

Hestia grabbed his arm and dug her heels into the pavement. Sirius tried to shrug her off but she clung on tighter. "Slow down and _talk_ to me!" she gasped.

Sirius pushed her away. "I was going to do it!" he roared. "I nearly did! I would have given him Remus, just to get Harry back, and I didn't care! I was so angry – but I didn't care! _I was going to give him Moony!_"

Hestia gave a little squeak of terror. "But you didn't," she said desperately. "That's what matters. Sirius, he was probably lying…he wouldn't have been able to tell you where Harry was…you did the right thing…"

"Don't tell me about right and wrong," hissed Sirius, turning away.

There was a crack and a blast of inrushing air as he Disapparated.

Hestia, suddenly alone, realised that the warmth had been drained out of the summer night, and a cold wind was blowing. She shivered, wrapping her cloak more tightly around herself, and made ready to Disapparate. As she turned, she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye – a shadow retreating into the bushes of the empty lot not far away, and a soft patter that might have been running footsteps. Hestia looked harder, but if there had been someone there, she couldn't see them now.

Uneasily, she looked away, and a moment later there came the crack of her Disapparation.

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TBC

A/N: As always, thank you to all reviewers.

Next chapter will be Harry and Frank, and I will try to get it up soon, but on Saturday (my Saturday, it might be your Friday depending on where you live in the world) I am going tramping with my family for seven days. Unfortunately, it means I will be out range of cell-phones, internet, word processors and other modern paraphernalia…heck, I will even be out of range of flush-toilets. So there won't be an update for at least a week after Saturday. Possibly longer because I need time to recover.

Cheers,  
Tawa


	13. A Missing Birthday

A/N: It might be Friday 13th for some of you. Chapter thirteen on Friday the Thirteenth. I feel lucky!

Lost: One godson, Answers to Harry

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_He's older than I expected_, Frank thought. He had taken the wobbly handwriting on the letter to mean that the boy who had signed his name at the bottom – the elusive _Harry_ who was now standing before Frank – was a small child, perhaps seven or eight years old, though the accurate spelling of 'impenetrable' had suggested otherwise. But the boy looked almost ten, or perhaps eleven. And Frank had never seen such a sickly child, even in the distant memories of a war in his own youth. The boy was pale as milk, highlighting the small spots of early pubescent acne on his nose, his whiteness enhanced by the mess of black hair framing his face. And what a face – the poor boy had scars right down his cheek and across his forehead, terrible scars that made Frank think of soldiers and battles. The boy's arms were thin as twigs, his lips chapped and peeling, and he ran in a shambling fashion, as if he was never sure which direction his feet were going to go in.

Part of Frank wanted to believe that the boy standing before him was only an apparition, an illusion that would vanish with the noonday sun. Part of him hoped that the boy really was nothing more than Pettigrew's ill nephew, locked up for his own protection and prone to bouts of hysteria that might have prompted him to write a distress letter in what Frank had quickly recognised as dried blood.

But the likelihood of that was growing slimmer. And, much as he reviled at the thought of being caught up in other people's debauched affairs, standing aside and letting those affairs carry on under his own nose was simply not something Frank would stand for.

So instead, he extended his hand, as brown and calloused as wood, and greeted the boy. "Hello lad. I'm Frank. And you must be Harry," he was suddenly aware of the caretaker watching them from the doorway of the Riddle house, so he lowered his voice in what he feared was a conspiratorial manner and added, "I got your messages, lad, don't you worry."

The boy took Frank's hand in his own pale, sweaty one and shook it.

"Thank you," he replied. "I was beginning to think I'd never get anywhere."

He winced a little as his hand pulled away, and Frank asked quickly, "You've got a bad hand there, have you?"

The boy – _Harry_, Frank corrected himself – nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose. His eyes, Frank noticed, were deep green, the only colour in his face that didn't look weak and washed-out. He held the hand close to his chest. "It's just a cut. It's from ages ago."

"Well, let's have a look," Frank barked. Harry pulled away for a moment, then, chewing on his lip, he held out his hand. Frank gave a disapproving huff as he took a hold of Harry's wrist to bring him close enough to inspect the cut. It was an old wound, that was certain, but the boy had clearly been picking at it, and the skin around it was red and inflamed. It wasn't badly infected, but it wasn't going to heal anytime soon, either. Frank gave it a gentle prod and received a hiss of pain from Harry. He shook his head at the boy. "This is a pretty ragged cut, lad. You should take better care of yourself. Come on, let's give it a proper wash and bandage it up."

Frank took the boy's hand and made to lead him towards his small cottage on the edge of the estate, but the Harry resisted, glancing nervously back at the Riddle house. "I think I'd better stay in Wormtail's sight," he explained. "Don't want to make him suspicious," his expression seemed to be pleading for Frank to understand.

Frank shrugged. "Fair enough. I'll be back in a moment."

----------------------------------

Frank returned with a bowl of warm water, a crusty old bottle of antiseptic and a faded box of muggle sticking-plasters. He sat Harry down to clean and bandage the ugly cut on his palm. Every few minutes Harry looked back at the Riddle house, and wriggled impatiently as Frank tediously dabbed antiseptic into the cut, which had opened up as the boy flexed his hand.

Harry's agitation was making Frank more uneasy than ever, but he decided he was not going to let anything faze him today. As the boy squinted once more at the open front door of the Riddle house, Frank grumbled, "You can't possibly think he'd be able to hear us talking over this distance, do you?" They were at least fifty metres from the house.

"He has ways," Harry replied, turning unblinking green eyes on Frank. "We should keep our voices down. Ouch!"

Frank put down the stinging antiseptic and began opening sticking plasters. "Now then," he said. "You're going to tell me what possessed you to write me that letter in your own blood, lad, and why you've been hidden up in that house since then. Are you mad, or something? They turning that place into some kind of asylum?"

Harry shook his head. "No. At least, I hope I'm not mad," he said quietly. "I just want to go home. I'm a prisoner. This is the first time I've been allowed to leave the house…I managed to leave you that message in the dirt when I broke out, once. You will help me, won't you?" he asked, suddenly anxious. "You don't really think I'm mad?"

Frank chewed his tongue for a moment before answering. It was not disbelief at the boy's sanity, but merely caution. Once he gave Harry his word, he couldn't go back on it. At last he sighed, "Yeah, I'll help you. How old are you, lad?"

"Twelve," said Harry, turning his face once more to the Riddle house. "Although, I'll be thirteen at the end of July. Is that soon?"

"Only a couple of weeks away," Frank said, surprised at the boy's age. He looked younger than that. "How long have you been in that house?"

"I don't know…nearly ten months," Harry answered. Frank finished the bandaging of Harry hand and the boy inspected it tentatively. "Thank you," he smiled, looking unexpectedly cheeky. "It feels strange, saying that. I never thank Wormtail."

"Wormtail? Is that what you call Pettigrew?"

"Who?"

"The caretaker," Frank said, frowning. "His name's Pettigrew. But I like Wormtail, it suits him better."

"I didn't know," Harry said, leaning his head back to get more sun on his face. He didn't seem conscious of the terrible scars on his face at all, but perhaps that was just from being accustomed to them. "I've only heard him called Wormtail. Although Mum and Dad called him Peter, I think," his eyes suddenly hardened, and he looked much older and grimmer. "He killed them, my Mum and Dad," he looked at the old man beside him, and Frank felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Harry was twelve years old, but he seemed to be commanding Frank to listen and obey him. Harry hissed, "That's why I have to get out of here. The ones who kidnapped me are my enemies. All they care about is keeping me alive."

To avoid that compelling gaze, Frank busied himself with tipping out the bowl of water and gathering up the antiseptic and the sticking plasters. He wanted to change the subject, so he said, "In your letter, you talked about someone named Sirius. I assumed he was your father, and Moony was your mother." He did not mention that he had also imagined they must be a pair of no-good hippies, with names like that. Young people today were all too frivolous for their own good.

"My godfather," Harry sprang up and his voice gained a new eagerness. "Did you send my letter? Is Sirius coming? As soon as he knows where I am, he'll come, nothing will stop him…you did send it, didn't you?" He asked anxiously, when Frank's face remained expressionless.

Frank stood up, feeling his back creak a little, and picked up his spade. "Yeah, I sent it, lad," he answered as he wandered back to the flowerbed where he had been digging out the stump of a dead rosebush when Harry had first appeared. He left the bowl and the rest of the medical supplies where they were, thinking he could pick them up later.

"And?" Harry asked apprehensively. "Did he reply? Is he coming?"

Frank pushed his spade into the dark earth, chopping under the roots of the rosebush. Harry was standing to one side, watching him. Frank sighed and paused to get a better grip on the handle of the spade. "I don't think he got it, lad. The letter just come back yesterday, with 'return to sender' stamped on the outside."

"But," Harry shook his head as if he didn't believe Frank, "we've got a letterbox, now. The muggle postman should be able to find us…twelve Grimmauld Place. That's where you addressed it, right? You could read what I wrote, couldn't you? I couldn't write it clearly…because of my hand…"

"I didn't send it by no 'muggle' postman, whatever you mean by that, but I did send it to twelve Grimmauld Place London, like your letter said. So I don't know what went wrong," Frank grunted as he levered at the stubborn roots of the dead bush.

Harry sat down on the grass, rubbing his scars in a habitual motion, like the way some people bite their nails when they are anxious. "Why would that be?"

"I don't know, lad, but I've sent the letter out again. One of the girls at the post office was going to London for a couple of weeks and she said she'd go and find the house if I gave her the letter. Took a bit of convincing, but she did say she would," Frank knelt and began untangling the roots from the soil. "She'll be back in August, she said, so we'll know then whether or not the letter's been delivered."

"Why'd she take convincing?" Harry asked. Frank thought this was a very nosy thing to ask, which reminded him of why he didn't like children.

He answered anyway. "Oh, they don't trust me down at the village."

"Why's that?"

Frank growled. "Old grudges."

"What do you mean?"

"It means never you mind!" the old gardener snapped, shooting a warning glare at Harry. But the boy's eye only flashed mischievously.

After a moment, Harry said thoughtfully. "I'm going to find a way out of the garden. There has to be a way, and I just have to figure it out. Will you help me get what I need? Wormtail doesn't let me have anything that might be dangerous, you see. But you must go down to the village a lot?"

"Sometimes," Frank said surlily, returning to the roots of the rose bush. He finally hacked the last of the smaller roots away and parted the stump from the earth. He brushed the lumps of soil off and carried the stump to his wheelbarrow not far away.

Harry stood up as Frank returned. "I should go back," the boy explained. "In case Wormtail gets suspicious. Thank you, Frank."

He set off across the lawn in his strange shambling run, as if he was learning to use his legs all over again. He turned back once to wave, his glasses flashing in the sunlight, and Frank paused and raised his hand in reply.

---------------------------------------------

Harry spent every day in the garden, and as little time as possible in the house. He tried to keep him conversations with Frank to a minimum, as Wormtail was always watching them, though he rarely ventured near enough to eavesdrop. But it was difficult to deny himself a friendly voice to listen to. Frank was old, grumpy and easily offended, but Harry always looked forward to talking to him, and he was certain that Frank didn't mind having a small boy chattering ceaselessly to him while he limped across the carefully-cropped lawns.

Harry told Frank about his life. He told him about how he had been raised by Sirius, and how they had gone to France to rescue Moony and how he, Harry, had been such a fool and had run away to go to school. He told Frank about Ron and Hermione who had looked after him, "but they've probably forgotten all about me," he sighed. He told Frank about his hunger strike to make Wormtail give him what he wanted. He didn't tell Frank about being a werewolf – the old muggle would never believe him – nor did he talk about what Dumbledore had said about his being a Horcrux – but that was because it was something awful he simply didn't want to talk about.

Frank listened to everything Harry said, and even though he frequently complained that Harry could have talked the legs of a donkey and it was clear that Frank thought Harry had made a lot of things up, he never told Harry to go away.

The enchantments that Frank was unknowingly victim to were a puzzle for Harry. He was sure that Wormtail was telling the truth – Frank had been bewitched. But in what ways, and how could such bewitchments be overcome?

Frank was always reluctant to go down to the village, just as he was reluctant to leave it in search for help for Harry, but whether that was some spell or simple stubbornness, it was impossible to tell. Likewise his lack of enthusiasm in the matter of thwarting Wormtail and escaping the house – had he been hexed to keep him subdued, or was he simply an old man who didn't want any trouble? He was perfectly willing to help when Harry made a suggestion, such as bringing Harry notepaper from the village (which he did, along with several ball-point pens, saying he didn't care for any more bloody letters) but he wasn't willing to take risks under his own steam. The cold fact of it was that Harry simply didn't know enough about magic to differentiate between when Frank was acting under a bewitchment and when he was acting of his own accord. Harry's magical education under Sirius' teachings had been patchy at best, and a year had passed since his last lesson. Even the small theories about magic that he had learned had now been half-forgotten.

At the back of Harry's mind, he wondered if Frank might not be controlled by that strange curse that Wormtail had tried to use on Harry – the one for which the incantation was _imperio_. Perhaps the old man was even reporting all Harry's conversations back to Wormtail? Perhaps he was even being controlled directly by You-Know-Who himself? Harry knew that if this was the case, all the plans he and Frank had made were doomed. But that did not deter Harry in the slightest – after all, he had nothing to lose by going through with his escapist ideas. He simply had to be careful not to force Frank into any situation where a jinx might be triggered – Sirius had described how some spells would be invisible and dormant until their victim did or said something in particular, such as betraying the caster of the jinx.

Since Frank insisted upon waiting for the girl from the post-office to return – hopefully having found Sirius and delivered Harry's letter – Harry was forced in the meantime to face the latest problem of the final barrier between him and his freedom: the wall that surrounded the estate, which could not be touched by human hand.

He laboriously studied the wall, searching for some weakness which its maker had missed. Every time he went near it he plucked up the courage to touch it with one finger, testing it in case it happened to fail. He tried to poking it with branches, bits of wood, metal and plastic cutlery from the kitchen, and tried protecting his hand with his shirt and the rubber sole of his shoe. None of it made any difference to the terrible weakness that shot through him when he touched the wall, or when he touched it with some other material. It would be impossible to make a ladder of wood, or gloves that might stifle the effects. Harry had considered digging under the wall, until he heard Frank comment happily on how there had no been a single rabbit in the garden since the wall had gone up. That suggested that there was magic under the wall as well as in it.

Then one day Harry got a hold of one of Frank's garden tools, a trowel with a plastic handle. When he touched the wall he braced himself for the usual collapse onto his knees and the aches that accompanied continuously falling to the ground – and then realised he was still on his feet.

The weakness still hit him like a hammer, making his hands shake and his head droop in exhaustion. But it was not as bad as normal. It was _far_ more tolerable than normal.

Harry stepped back and stared at the trowel. What had he done? What was different? It finally hit him – the blade of the trowel was made of stainless steel. Steel was made partly of iron. And cold iron – or so Sirius had frequently complained – was one of the few physical materials that deterred magic.

Harry had to bite his lip to keep himself from cheering. Of _course!_ The cutlery had not protected him from the magic of the wall because it was made of silver, not steel. Silver made no difference. But if somehow they could use _iron_…if a small concentration of iron weakened the magic, than pure iron might negate it completely…

His excitement ebbed as the day wore on. It was all very well to make such a terrific breakthrough, but how could Harry use it? You could not make gloves out of iron. You could not climb a wall in an iron suit of armour. Perhaps you could build a ladder out of iron, but with what? Could Frank walk down to the local hardware store and request a stepladder made entirely of _iron_? Besides the fact that muggles didn't make such things, bringing an iron stepladder into the Riddle estate would be bound to attract the unwanted attention of Wormtail. The only iron that was already in the estate was that on the gate – and clearly, it must be fake, not real iron at all but copper or some other metal bewitched to appear different, because the gate, like the wall, was magical.

Harry mused on this problem for several days, and though several ideas came to him, there was only one that seemed even vaguely practical.

----------------------------------------

"We're going to have to build a ladder out of cast-iron pots," Harry told Frank when he saw him that morning.

Frank gave a barking laugh and shot Harry a very patronising look.

"I'm not kidding," Harry insisted. "That's the only way I can think of to climb the wall. Nothing but iron will protect us from the spell that's on that wall, and the only place I can think to get iron is cooking pots."

Frank sighed. It was the sigh of a man who is perfectly aware of his own sharp wits but doubts the sanity of those around him. This was the one thing that frustrated Harry to no end about Frank. Frank resolutely, stubbornly, infuriatingly refused to believe in magic.

Harry avoided talking about magic whenever he could. It was, after all, illegal in the wizarding world to show their powers to non-magical folk. And Harry had been trained by Sirius to be very careful never to reveal his belief in magic. It was vital when you were a pair of wizards on the run, hiding among muggles. But sometimes Harry had to discuss magic with Frank, such as now for instance – and Frank always shook his head sadly every time Harry mentioned the word 'spell' or 'bewitchment'.

"I've got it figured out," Harry explained, ignoring Frank's disbelieving sigh and pointing at the wall. "I've been estimating the height of the wall using my own height. We need something two and half metres high. An ordinary cooking pot is ten centimetres from lip to bottom. That's only twenty-five pots. We stack them upside-down and weld them together with solder, because I'm sure you can buy that in a hardware store and you can melt that on the element of an ordinary stove. The handles of the pots will stick outwards and form the rungs of the ladder."

"Lad," said Frank patiently, "twenty-five cast iron pots will weigh more than both of us put together. We'll never be able to carry something like that. Build a ladder out of tree branches and be done with it. I'll cover for you as best I can. I promised you I'd help you escape and I'll do just that, but I won't get mixed up in silly notions…"

"Wood doesn't work, I told you, the enchantment on the wall goes straight through it," Harry said, gritting his teeth.

Frank pressed his lips together in exasperation. "This nonsense about magic is getting foolish, lad. There's no mumbo-jumbo on that wall. It's just electric wires…"

"It's _not_ electric wires!" Harry cried, stomping his foot. He clenched his fists and took a breath to calm himself. "_Please_ Frank. This is the only way to get out. I know it's a lot to ask – because you'll have to do the work yourself, in your house – but if you can get buy twenty-five cast-iron pots and do this for me, it will mean everything. I have to go home, Frank, I'm twelve years old and I'm just going to die if I stay here for another month…" he could feel a hard lump in his throat that meant he wanted to cry, and he forced it back down.

"Thirteen, lad," said Frank quietly. "Didn't you say your birthday was at the end of July? Well, it's the thirty-first today. You're thirteen."

A long pause followed this. "Oh," Harry said finally. He felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. "It's my birthday," he said aloud, without meaning to. He looked up with a small frown on his face, as if he wasn't really sure what to think about this new revelation.

From across the lawn came a shout. Harry and Frank both looked up to see Wormtail standing in the doorway to the Riddle house, beckoning with wide sweeps of his arms.

"What does he want?" Harry grimaced, breaking out of his reverie. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Frank."

Wormtail was hanging back in the shadow of the doorway. Harry had barely spoken five words to him since he had been allowed to leave the house, but Wormtail's grey and terrified complexion was familiar. It was the way the man always looked when he had been speaking to his master.

Harry paused on the threshold and waited silently to hear what Wormtail had to say. But the man just beckoned with his forefinger, his hand trembling and his upper lip covered in beads of sweat. Harry followed him into the house.

---------------------------------------

"Harry…" 

The room seemed to be full of fog. A face, wreathed in mist, was reaching out to him. A face lined with red hair and a soft, kindly smile…

"Mum?"

"Harry, run…go now…" 

"I am!" Harry called, struggling towards her through the mist. "I am running!"

"_Harry_…"

And then the face in the mist was not his mother's. It was a boy, round-faced and frightened, a boy with a lightening-bolt shaped scar on his forehead identical to the one Harry's own. The boy's eyes widened, his mouth a soundless black 'o'.

"Are you Neville?" Harry shouted through the stifling mist.

With a jolt as if he had been electrocuted, he awoke. The scratchy fibre of the pillow filled his nostrils. Harry rolled over and found himself staring at the familiar blurry ceiling of his bedroom in the Riddle house. His head ached, and he sat up slowly and fumbled for his glasses on the table beside the bed. The room came into the focus. Harry looked around quickly, half expecting to see his mother or Neville standing at the end of his bed, but it was empty.

He got up and found he had fallen asleep fully-clothed. He must have dozed off for only a few minutes. It couldn't be morning already. Harry remembered he had promised Frank that he would be out in only a few minutes, but then he had gone upstairs…or had he? Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember coming back to his room…he must have had a dizzy spell of some kind…

Harry rubbed his head and went out into the hallway. He stomach rumbled as if he hadn't eaten for hours. The brick wall across the stairwell was already open. Wormtail was starting to get careless. _He's scared of his master_, Harry thought, then wondered why something like that had crossed his mind.

The door was locked, as always, but Wormtail was sitting in the kitchen and he hurried to open it as soon as he saw Harry standing in the doorway. Then he cringed back into the corner and Harry brushed past the man without looking at him.

"Frank!" he called, when he saw the gardener pruning the hedges that ran across the garden. Frank turned and nodded his head at Harry as the boy approached. Harry bent and began to pick up the hedge clippings and carrying them to Frank's wheelbarrow, chattering as he went. "I'm sorry I took longer than I said. I fell asleep."

Frank grunted. "I missed you yesterday. I didn't get to wish you a happy birthday," Frank tucked the hedge clippers under his arm. "Pass me my gloves will you, lad, they're on the ground there."

"Yesterday? The thirty-first is my birthday," Harry explained, handing Frank the gloves. "You haven't missed it yet."

Frank pulled on the gloves and got to work in a deeper, pricklier part of the hedge. "Thirty-first was yesterday. I told you that."

Harry blinked, wondering if Frank was beginning to go senile. "But you only said it this morning."

"I didn't see you this morning, lad," Frank frowned, looking over his shoulder at Harry. "I saw you yesterday morning. I was going to tell you happy birthday, but then Wormtail called you away and I didn't get a chance. But I've thought about your pots idea and if you think it's the only way, then I suppose we could give it a try…"

Frank kept talking but Harry had not heard anything past '_but then Wormtail called you away_'. A noise like rushing water was filling his ears so that Frank's cracked old voice was drowned out and lost. He felt his legs give way and he sat down on the grass without really noticing.

A day missing. A day missing, and he didn't remember going to bed, and Wormtail had looked terrified, as if he had just spoken to his master…

"Oh, no…He can't have…" Harry shook his head. Frank looked at him questioningly, but Harry was staring at the hedge, running his hand through his hair, his face twisted in horror. "He's been…all the days missing between the full moons…I thought…but He's been visiting…He's been visiting me…"

"Who?" Frank said, concerned at the boy's blank stare. He put down the hedge clippers and bent to touch Harry's shoulder. "What's the matter, lad?"

Harry turned to look up at Frank. "He's been obliviating my memory!" he gasped in a faint whisper. "He's been visiting me and talking to me and then making me forget… every month… sometimes more then once… that's the only explanation… Frank, he _makes people tell him things!_ No one can lie to him," he buried his face in his hands, muffling his voice as he spoke. "I've been thinking I was so clever, getting the curtains open and escaping the house… but he must have known, he would have found out from my own mouth… and he let me do it, he didn't stop me, he let me think I had a hope of escaping…"

"Here, now that's no way to think," Frank didn't have a clue what Harry was talking about, but he recognised despair in the boy's voice. "Sure you've got hope, what about your idea to make the ladder?"

"He'll know by now," Harry groaned. "I will have told him. If only I could remember, I…" he raised his head slowly, frowning. "Neville," he said, "I do remember! He was there, speaking to me, asking me questions, but suddenly it was like…I could see _Neville_ behind his eyes!" Harry shook his head in bewilderment. "I couldn't believe it, I said Neville's name aloud, and suddenly he stood up and pointed his wand at me… he must have been casting the memory charm… but somehow Neville had distracted him, because now I can remember…"

Frank scratched his head, at a total loss.

"Then I maybe he _doesn't_ know!" Harry cried, excitement filling his face. "There's still chance he didn't find out!" He leapt up and grabbed Frank's arms. "There's still a chance, Frank! We have to build the ladder as soon as we can… sooner, if possible…"

Frank could only nod, still wondering what he has missed along the way.

---------------------------------------

The curtains were open in the cavernous kitchen of the Riddle house, its corners dusty and undisturbed. Since the prisoner was no longer confined to the house, all the curtains had been opened, and watery sunlight filtered through the grimy windows.

It was the first week of August and someone was knocking on the door.

Harry was having breakfast in what he affectionately thought of as the ballroom of the Riddle house. It was a huge room with a high ceiling supported by two thick wooden pillars rising from the floor, and a pair of large oak doors set at either end. Though it had probably been built as a large study rather than as a room for dancing in, Harry called it the ballroom because there was a large painting of a dancing couple on one wall, and because he didn't realise how difficult it would be to dance with a pair of pillars in your way. He liked sitting in the ballroom because there was no furniture in here, and every noise was amplified and echoed by the room's size. This made it impossible for Wormtail to loiter in dark corners and sneak up on him.

He heard the knocking on the door and didn't realise what it was for a few moments. When he finally thought about the odd banging and decided it was someone knocking on the door, he abandoned his breakfast and dashed out of the ballroom as fast as he could. No one had ever come to knock on the door of the Riddle house for as long as he had been there – there was no one, after all, who could _get_ as far as the door.

Wormtail was in the kitchen, asleep at the table. Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he might have been drinking. Discarding this thought for the moment, he shook Wormtail's shoulder as hard as he could. "Wake up! _Wake up!_"

Wormtail's head lolled but he didn't open his eyes. The knocking on the door grew more insistent. Fearing that whoever was there might soon get bored and leave, Harry cast her eyes around and saw one of the frying pans sitting unwashed in the sink. He grabbed it, raced back to Wormtail and heaved it up, meaning to hit the man as hard as he could on his black robed back.

He was just raising the frying pan above his head when Wormtail gave a snort and awoke. He raised his head, saw Harry about to bash him with a frying pan, gave a squeal of terror and fell sideways off his chair, pulling out his wand as he did so. Harry just managed to bring the frying pan between him and the wand: Wormtail's stunning spell bounced harmlessly off it, cracking a mug sitting on the windowsill.

Harry peered over the top of the frying pan. "There's someone at the door," he said, just as the knocking was renewed full strength.

"What?" Wormtail panted, still sitting on the floor with his wand waveringly pointed at Harry's face.

"_Get up_! There's someone at the door, and I can't open it!" Harry shouted, dropping the frying pan on the table and heading for the kitchen door. Wormtail, who seemed to have been temporarily stunned by Harry speaking to him, struggled to his feet and followed him. He fumbled with his wand for a moment and finally, with Harry nearly screaming in impatience, managed to unlock the front door and fling it open.

Frank Bryce was standing on the step outside. Harry couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Some unreasonable part of him had hoped it was a rescue party.

"Why doesn't my key work any more?" Frank demanded. When Wormtail, who was still frazzled by his recent awakening, didn't answer, Frank went on. "I've just had terrible news," he said, his voice shaking a little. He was clutching his hat to his chest. "My sister has died very suddenly. I've only just been down to the village and got the message. The funeral is in two day's time."

"Why a-are you telling me this?" Wormtail finally managed to find his voice.

"Well, I've got to go away for a few days, hadn't I?" Frank said angrily. "And you're always saying I'm to notify you if I'm not going to be here. So consider yourself notified!"

Wormtail relaxed a bit and said, "A-alright, you can go. But if you're not back i-in five days, don't bother coming back to w-work here any more."

"Oh, so that's how it is?" Frank huffed. "Fired for going to my sister's funeral? I will be back in five days, sir, and count it a blessing!" With that, he turned on his heels and strode away down the path.

Harry pushed past Wormtail, who was still rubbing his eyes in a bewildered manner, and hurried to catch up with Frank. When he had fallen into step with the old gardener, he said softly, "I'm sorry about your sister, Frank."

Frank looked at him and gave him the tiniest winks. "I don't have a sister, lad," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "I've just been down at the village. The girl at the post office has come back from London. She couldn't find your twelve Grimmauld Place," he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the corner of what Harry recognised as his own scuffed, bloody letter. "So I'm taking it there myself."

"Really?" Harry stopped short and Frank turned with a small smile on his face.

"I am," he said, patting Harry's shoulder. "I'm sorry I've been such a stubborn old man, lad, but I've run out of excuses. I can't keep out of this whole mess any longer. I'll go to London and find your Sirius Black, you just see if I don't."

"Thank you!" Harry cried, and then he could not stop himself throwing his arms around Frank's chest and hugging the old man. "If you really can't find it, Moony owns a cottage near a village called Fairley, ask for a man named Lupin. And our friend Tonks, she's at the Auror Headquarters in this Moor near Oxford, but it's secret so you probably can't find it, and my friend Ron Weasley lives in Ottery St Catchpole, and when I was at the muggle school I had a friend called Patty, she lives in London too, on Walker Street. And Hogwarts is…oh, I don't know where Hogwarts is…" Harry finished.

"I'll see what I can do, lad," Frank replied, detaching himself from Harry. "Now I'd best be going to pack, I've got a long way to travel tomorrow."

Harry watched him amble away towards his house on the edge of the estate, where the secret iron ladder was half built and lying under a rug on Frank's kitchen, and felt suddenly fearful that he had lead Frank into something more dangerous than he knew or understood. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, "Goodbye, Frank!"

Frank waved back to him and then disappeared into his house.

-----------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: Alright, I admit, I have no idea whether there are any moors near Oxford and I just made up the town of Fairley. It's a real town in my country and nearly all the European names over here are just the names of English towns, so it's _probably_ a real place.

Thank you everybody and do remember to review – I need something to look forward to while I am struggling through dense bush, battling sandflies and giant wetas (did you see Peter Jackson's King Kong? Well that's where I'm going, minus the dinosaurs and Adrian Brody. My Dad counts for Kong.)

Cheers!


	14. Interrupted Revelation

A/N: Well, after my long hiatus in the rugged New Zealand forest, I'm back and ready to begin the last leg in the marathon that my _Lost_ trilogy has been. We are entering the final chapters (though there are still a good few left to go) and I admit I am relieved. Much as I have enjoyed this particular marathon, it will be wonderful to finish it.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

-----------------------------------

Lupin was confined to the suburban muggle house until Dumbledore deemed that the threat from other werewolves had subsided, or at least until the new school term started and he could resume his post at Hogwarts. The thought of nearly two whole months trapped in a house – with Maud to cope with on top of everything else – would have driven anyone else, especially Sirius, completely mad. But Lupin, with his endlessly patient nature, showed no sign of frustration at the prospect.

Tonks might have had something to do with this. Certainly she was a more than regular visitor to Lupin's hideout.

Sirius brooded for a week over whether or not to tell Lupin that he and Hestia had gone to visit Fenrir Greyback, but in the end he could not face divulging Greyback's words to Lupin. He hitched a smile back onto his face and tried to forget what had happened that night, though Hestia tried to bring it up several times with him and was briskly rebuffed. Sirius could not keep himself from thinking – _what if Greyback's still alive? You could still find him and make the bargain_ – but he forced this thought back down every time it reared its ugly head.

Those next few weeks felt like a strange calm between two storms. With Lupin free from work and obligations to the Order, Tonks' cheery presence a constant nuisance, and Maud finally making a grudging attempt to enter a room and not instantly make herself the enemy of everyone in it, life seemed almost – _pleasant_. It was summer, after all, and even if nothing was going right, it still made a change from everything going wrong.

Harry's thirteenth birthday was marked by a quiet toast in Lupin's house, without celebration or grieving.

Lupin seemed to have resolved to make full use of his spare time before he returned to teaching at Hogwarts. He threw himself into the tasks around him with an enthusiasm he had never shown before. Half of every waking hour was spent helping Sirius continue the search for his godson. The other half was dedicated to the rehabilitation of the feral cat that was Maud. Every other moment that could be spared was given up to Tonks.

Maud had progressed from the grimy, bitter, unwholesome little creature that Lupin had first brought back from the wilderness. She could almost complete an entire conversation without losing her temper, and her personal hygiene had improved as well. She even helped with the chores around the house. Lupin was doing his best to bring her level of education up to a standard that would allow her to enter the muggle workforce. The eventual goal was that of Maud's full independence and a life as an ordinary muggle – though, of course, she would forever rely on the Wolfsbane potion. But that goal was still a long, long way off.

Lupin's new ardour towards the search for Harry surprised Sirius. Of course, Lupin had always done everything he could do to help, but suddenly he was putting not just his means but his brain to the problem, and that was making all the difference. Being stuck in the house proved no obstacle. Accompanied by Tonks and Sirius or communicating through owl post, Lupin began researching and exploring new lines of investigation that would never have occurred to Sirius. He ordered archives of every copy of the _Daily Prophet_ since Harry has vanished, contacted muggle police stations around the country, wrote pages of notes on the clues they had already collected in search of new connections, and delved into ancient spells for finding and locating.

"There must be other links," he mused aloud pushing aside piles of _Daily Prophets_ and crossing out a line of unintelligible numbers with two swift slashes of his quill. Sirius was sitting on the couch across the room, completing some paperwork for his job at Gringotts, which he still held despite repeated threats of a sacking from his goblin bosses. Lupin tapped his lip with the sharp end of the quill, not noticing that he was getting ink all over his chin. "There's no such thing as an airtight prison. Someone, somewhere has to know _something_ – if only we could find them."

Sirius very nearly burst out and told Lupin about Greyback at that moment, but his courage failed even as he opened his mouth to speak. By now, Greyback was most probably dead, he reminded himself, and any information he might or might not have held was dead with him.

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So August arrived without a breakthrough but with Lupin's assurance that they had narrowed things down and sooner or later they had to get lucky. Life was getting hectic again – Lupin was preparing to return to Hogwarts and Tonks was getting ready to sit her final Auror examinations which would take place at the end of the first week. If she passed these tests with high enough marks, she would be a fully-qualified Auror and ready to work full-time with the Ministry.

Hestia and Sirius put off their usual activities to give her as much last-minute practise in duelling and tracking as could be crammed into those final days. Tonks fluctuated between tearing her hair out over her own clumsiness and calm resignation that she was going to fail abysmally, no matter how much everyone else tried to convince her otherwise. She filled Lupin's kitchen with concoctions while she practised brewing antidotes and hexed Maud three times out of sheer bad-tempered spite.

On the day of the examinations, she dropped all pretence and sat quivering on Lupin's couch, staring at the wall with her hair drooping thick and black around her face.

"You're _not_ going to fail," Sirius and Hestia told her, again and again and again. Tonks just moaned and dug her fingernails into her cheeks.

Finally Lupin sat down on the couch, put both arms around the shuddering young woman, and said, "Tonks, you are going to be fine."

And a few moments later, in a way that no one else in the room would ever figure out, she was. Her hair faded back to pink, her shoulders stopped shaking and she folded her hands in her lap. "You're right," she said. "I'm fine. I'm going to be fine."

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"Sirius, she passed."

"What?"

"Tonks! She passed her examinations! She's officially an Auror!"

"You're joking, Hestia."

"That's harsh of you! Did you really doubt her?"

"No…but all the same…"

"Come on, we're going down the pub to celebrate. You ready?"

"Alright. Where's Remus?"

"He's not coming. He said he's working on something tonight. Come on, I'm sure he doesn't like drinking much anyway. Tonks! An Auror! I can barely comprehend it."

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Sirius raised his head very slowly and groaned aloud. It felt as if there was hippogriffs charging around in his skull, ripping up the lobes of his brain into shreds. He opened his eyes and found the room was still spinning a little, and put out his hand to steady himself. It took him a few moments to figure out where he was – on his own couch in his small London apartment, with his jacket draped over him like a blanket, and a head-splitting hangover.

He lay prone for a few minutes to let the hippogriffs in his skull settle, along with his stomach. He hadn't been well and truly drunk since – well since that time all those years ago, before he and Harry had come back to London, when he'd gone into a rage – but that didn't bear remembering. When he'd come out of that he'd sworn to Harry that he would never drink again, and for the most part, he'd kept that promise.

Finally he summoned the strength to lever himself to his feet and totter into the kitchen to find his wand, which was inexplicably jammed into the toaster. Sirius splashed his face with water to wake himself up and summoned a strong cup of tea.

He'd just staggered back to the couch and was kneeling down to light the fire with a quick spell when an inferno of green flames rushed out at him and Lupin's head appeared in the grate with a small _pop_.

"Ow!" Lupin said, as Sirius' wand had just poked him in the eye. "Careful!" But he did not sound angry. In fact, he was positively beaming. Definitely more cheer than anyone deserved to have at this time of the morning.

Sirius put his wand aside and sat back onto the couch, looking rather as if he had been deflated. "Sorry," he said wearily. "What d'you want? I need to go to bed."

Lupin's head, with its collar of sparkling flames, grinned up at him. "Hung over, are you?"

"Gee, I can see _you_ were a whiz at Divination."

Lupin did not even frown at the sarcasm, but merely rolled his eyes affectionately. "Never mind," he said. "I'll fix it when you come over."

This did have a gladdening effect on Sirius, because Lupin _was_ good at hangover-curing charms. However, he was determined not to show his appreciation, so he said surlily. "I _really_ don't fancy Floo powder with this headache, unless you _like_ vomit spewing out of your fireplace at eighty miles an hour."

"You'll change your mind in a few seconds," Lupin replied smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's means," Lupin said, all the premature wrinkles that usually lined his face vanishing as his expression turned to one of gleeful triumph, "that I've figured something out. What _they_ are doing."

Sirius sat bolt upright, his headache instantly forgotten. Lupin continued in a delirious tone.

"I'm almost positive I'm right – a heck of a lot of things would make sense if I _am_ right. It's the Moly Essence, and Horace Slughorn, I don't know if you remember who he was – look, I don't think I should be telling you these things through the fireplace, we don't know who's listening," his voice grew low and serious. "Have a bite to eat and come straight over, alright? But don't…" he paused, cocking his ear with a puzzled expression.

"What?" Sirius leaned forward. "What is it?"

"Did you hear that just now? A kind of thump?"

"No – must be at your end-"

"Hold on," Lupin said quickly, and with a pop, his head vanished. Sirius was left staring at the emerald-green flames which were quickly dying down to nothing, waiting for his return. After about thirty seconds without any sign that Lupin was going to reappear, an involuntary shiver ran over him. Something – something was wrong.

He picked up his jacket up off the end of the couch and pulled it on over his robes. He lifted his wand, relit the fire, threw some Floo powder onto the grate and put one foot in the flames, "Remus Lupin's house!"

The familiar spinning sensation did not irritate his headache as much as he had claimed it would. Fear had replaced all self-pity about hangovers.

_WHAM!_ It was as if he had crashed into a hard rubber wall. Sirius flew backwards out of the grate and landed on his back with a jolt that really did remind him of his splitting headache. He was staring at his own stained ceiling, in his own apartment. He sat up, clutching his wand.

There had been a barrier over Lupin's fireplace. It had repelled him. And it must have been cast in the minute or so since he had seen Lupin disappear back to his own house.

Something was very, very wrong.

Sirius apparated into Hestia's living room less than a minute later. He found Hestia in the kitchen, standing over her kettle with a mug of hot coffee in her hands and an ice-pack clutched to her temple. When she glanced up to see him barrel in, her cheeks flushed a deep pink. She was only wearing brown flannel pyjamas and a pair of thick woollen socks.

"You could knock," she said irritably, straightening her pyjama top. "_Some_ people are still suffering from last night…"

"Come with me now," he said, dashing forward and grabbing her arm. "Now."

"What?" she lowered the ice-pack, blushing even pinker. "But I'm not even dressed…"

He waved his wand and one of her cotton dressing-gowns materialised in thin air. "Bring your wand. We're going to Lupin's."

"Lupin's? Has something happened?" Hestia snatched the dressing gown out of the air and fumbled it on, picking her wand up off the bench. He took her arm again and they both Apparated outside Lupin's squashed brick house.

"What's going on?" Hestia asked, waiting at the bottom of the steps while he pressed his ear to the wood of the door.

Sirius didn't answer her. He was listening for any sound from within the house, anything that might indicate someone was inside – but there was nothing. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting in frustration. Once he felt he had calmed down, he beckoned Hestia up to the door, and she came, raising her wand as she did. Her face was pale but resolute.

He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "We do this as a raid. Like when we were Aurors. I'll be forward, you cover the sides."

She nodded and steadied herself as he put his wand to the lock. It flashed green, and Sirius twisted the handle and pushed the door open, slipping through it with his wand raised.

The two ex-Aurors would have been ready to face a stampede of buffalo if that was what they had met in Lupin's hallway, but their caution was unnecessary. It took a bare thirty seconds to determine that the house was empty but for themselves.

No one was here now: but someone _had_ been here.

Most of the rooms showed no sign of damage. But in Lupin's kitchen and living room, it looked as if a whirlwind had torn through and then vanished. Mugs and glasses had been swept off the cupboard shelves, so that the lino was littered with sparkling shards of glass. One of the cupboards had had its door completely blown off, definitely by a spell if the burn marks were anything to go by. The curtains had been ripped down; deep scratches scarred the wallpaper of one wall; more spell-holes had been blasted into the kitchen bench.

In the living room, the damage was just as complete. One of Lupin's little notebooks lay in tatters, its pages torn to shreds and scattered like confetti across the room, its cover hurled into the fireplace where it was not burning, because the grate still crackled with merry green Floo-flames. Lupin's much-loved couch had finally met its end: it had been knocked over and the wooden frame had been snapped by some inhuman strength. Great gashes were torn across it, so that its stuffing poured out to join the shredded notepaper. A chair had been hurled against the fireplace where a leg had broken off, and several of the photographs on the mantelpiece above had fallen to the ground, their glass frames cracked. Lupin's home-crafted bookshelf had been toppled and the precious books trampled and crushed into the wrinkled rug, their spines broken and their pages spilling out of them.

And there was blood: splashed across the tiles in front of the fireplace, so fresh it was as red as a sunset, probably still warm. There was dark blood soaked into the threadbare carpet as well, a little way away, and a scarlet smear of it on the wall next to where Hestia stood. She looked stupefied, as if she was expecting someone to jump out from behind the sofa and yell, "Surprise!" Her wand hung limply at her side.

Sirius looked at the blood for a moment: then, in the blink of an eye, he transformed into the great black dog and put his nose to the trails. He sniffed at the blood on the carpet, on the tiles, and he stood on his hind legs to sniff the stain on the wall. It was at this point that he became human once more. He leaned his head on his arm against the wall, staring at the red smear, but his eyes were not focussing on it.

"It's his blood in front of the fireplace," he said, in a dull, toneless voice. Hestia felt a lead weight drop into her stomach, and a hook jerk at her throat. Sirius was still speaking. "The stuff on the rug and the wall, it's not his. I don't know the scent."

"There isn't much of it…" Hestia said, trying to sound hopeful. It was just habit speaking, though. She felt sick, and frightened, and disbelieving: but the one thing she did not feel was hopeful. "…I mean, there's a good chance…"

"A good chance _what?_" Sirius raised his head, and his teeth were bared. His eyes flashed, and Hestia stepped back a pace. Sirius advanced on her. "A good chance _what?_ That he's alive? Alive and _captured?_ Better he was dead – better dead than what they'll do to him!"

And suddenly he covered his face with his hands and hunched his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you, Hestia…" the voice coming through his fingers was softer, now. "Moony…" His mouth twisted bitterly as he spoke, so faint it was less than a whisper. "I can only hope it was quick – or will be quick."

Suddenly the colour returned to his cheeks and he pulled his lips back into a snarl. "Maud," he hissed. "Where is she?"

Hestia glanced around helplessly. "I don't know. Why does it matter?"

"It was her," Sirius said as he straightened up. "It was _her_. There were wards around the house…there was no way in except from inside…she lead them here. She must have been in contact with the other werewolves…"

Hestia began to shake her head in disbelief, and then stopped. Her eyes widened. "That night…that night we went to see Greyback. I thought I saw someone following us."

Sirius took only a moment to digest this news. "It was her. We walked from Lupin's house. She could have tailed us easily."

"But she'd locked herself in the bathroom! Don't you remember? And there were wards around that house! How did she get back without triggering them?" Hestia babbled desperately, unable to believe what Sirius was suggesting. Maud was foul, yes, but Lupin had taken her in and cared for her when no one else would even touch her. _No one_ could be that ungrateful. No one could be that cruel as to make such a betrayal.

Sirius shook his head. "Lupin turned the wards off when we arrived, because they were too noisy. He had Dumbledore lay new ones the next day. But that night…if Maud had climbed out the window and followed us, she would have been lead straight to Greyback. How pleased he must have been to see her, when she could tell him exactly what he wanted to know…"

"We've got to tell Dumbledore," Hestia said after a pause, and she felt sharp tears prickling her eyes. _No – I won't cry_, she said to herself, _not in front of Sirius_. "He should know."

Sirius nodded, but whether he had actually heard her or not, she could not tell.

----------------------------------

He sat slumped on the bed in a spare room in Grimmauld Place, the curtains pulled and the lamp dimmed. He had locked the door, but everyone outside seemed to have taken that as an invitation.

Hestia's voice came several times. The first time she knocked tentatively and called, "Sirius? Maybe you should…come out…people want to talk to you…" But he ignored her and at last she gave up.

A few minutes later, Kingsley knocked more insistently. "Sirius!" his voice floated through the door. "Hestia has told us what happened. You must not lock yourself away."

He kept talking for a while, but when he failed to elicit a response, eventually he went away. Dedalus Diggle and Edgar Bones came next. Apparently the entire Order was congregating on Grimmauld Place. "Sirius, come out, please!" Diggle squeaked, and Edgar rapped sharply on the door and added, "You're being ridiculous, Sirius! Come out and talk to us."

When Sirius continued to ignore them, they too abandoned the attempt. Hestia came back later and knocked frantically on the door. "Sirius, Tonks has arrived – please come out – I can't face her by myself and someone has to tell her what we found…" Her voice was wavering as if she was on the verge of tears. Sirius did not reply, and at last she stopped knocking and her footsteps vanished down the corridor.

A few minutes later, Sirius thought he heard a distant sobbing that might have been Tonks. He couldn't be sure. He turned his head towards the curtained window and tried not to listen. It faded quickly away.

Hestia returned a third time, but she was not alone. Her voice carried through the door into the bedroom.

"He's in there, Albus. He's locked the door and he won't come out."

"Indeed," Dumbledore's soft voice replied. "He hasn't hurt anyone, has he?"

"No," Hestia replied. "We came to Grimmauld Place to contact the Order and he lost his temper and smashed some things in the kitchen, but he didn't hurt anyone. Then he went out, saying he was going to track down Maud and kill her, but he came back pretty soon. That's when he locked himself in the bedroom."

Once again came the knocking on the door, a commanding thud that could only be Albus Dumbledore. "Come out, Sirius, or I will have to come in."

Sirius didn't reply.

"Very well. You have had long enough," Dumbledore warned after a minute or so. There was the sound of a muffled spell, the clatter of barrels in a lock, and the door swung open. Light from the hallway spilled into the bedroom and exposed Sirius slouched on the scrunched bedclothes, his arms folded.

"You know, it's rude to force your way through locked doors," he accused Dumbledore in a hoarse voice.

The headmaster stepped through the doorway and waved his wand to light the lamps of the bedroom. He wore a long magenta robe edged in dark grey and his silver beard was tucked into his belt. There seemed to be a great many more lines on the old man's face than when Sirius had seen him last.

"I have been to Remus' house," Dumbledore said heavily, folding his hands in front of him. "You and Hestia already guessed, I assume, that it was the followers of Fenrir Greyback who took him."

Sirius could not meet Dumbledore's eyes, so he stared at the flickering oil lamp just above his left shoulder. He nodded and said bitterly. "He found something out. He knew something about Harry. He was just about to tell me when it happened. I looked through his notebooks but most of them were all torn up, and I don't know what it was. Is that why they took him? Because he knew something?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "What happened this morning was probably weeks in planning. Whatever Lupin found out, he only discovered it between yesterday and this morning. Fate is harsh…it was simply bad luck that Lupin could not pass on his revelation to you this morning."

Sirius twisted the ragged sheet under his hand, his face stony and his eyes deeply shadowed. He growled, "He was so stupid to trust Maud. Anyone could see she was devoted to Greyback," his mouth twisted as he said the name. "I should have made him chuck her out from the beginning. I could have stopped this."

Dumbledore gave one of his heavy sighs that always made Sirius feel young and stupid. He said sadly, "I wish I could defend that poor girl, but searching Remus' house, I was forced to come to the same conclusion. He could only have been betrayed by someone with intimate knowledge of the house and its defences. And there was an emergency portkey hidden in his bookshelf which I found to be missing. I can imagine Remus saw no harm in telling Maud what it was – unwitting to the idea that she would steal it to ensure he could not escape when she let Greyback's werewolves into the house."

"Greyback's dead," Sirius burst out angrily. "Hestia and I went to meet him. Weeks ago. He was injured badly, he said he was going to die."

"I know. Hestia told me the night after your visit," Dumbledore replied. He came across the room and sat down on the end of the bed. The ancient mattress sagged under his weight, the springs creaking in miserable protest.

Sirius felt stunned and a little betrayed. Was Hestia reporting his every move to Dumbledore? He pulled his feet further away from the old headmaster. "Then you know what he said. You know what I'm thinking now," he whispered.

"You wish you had traded Remus for Harry. You are thinking, if this was how it was going to end for him one way or another, it wouldn't have made a difference."

Sirius nodded.

Dumbledore's blue eyes flashed for a moment in the orange lamplight. "You must not think such a thing again. Perhaps you cannot imagine what it would feel like to betray someone who trusted you unquestionably. I assure you, Sirius, it would have made all the difference. The hatred you feel for Maud right now – that hatred would be directed towards yourself, and even if Greyback would have helped you with your search for Harry – and I doubt he would, or could, have – the hatred would never go away."

Sirius didn't answer. He knew Dumbledore was right, but he didn't want to admit that the headmaster could be right. Harry was what mattered – would Lupin have understood that? Knowing that his sacrifice might have saved Harry, would Lupin have willingly let Greyback take him? Sirius didn't know, would never know. It seemed so unfair, to have been given the chance to find his godson, and to have wasted it, only to lose Lupin anyway. And Lupin would never see Harry again. It was so unfair Sirius wanted to be sick.

He still wasn't looking at Dumbledore's face, and his eyes drifted down to the Headmaster's lap. Sirius noticed that Dumbledore was holding his wand in his left hand, because there was something wrong with his right. It was black and twisted like a branch that had been burning in a fire for some hours, the nails melted into contorted scabs and the ends of what might have been charred bone poking through the tips. It looked as if it had somehow died.

Dumbledore saw where Sirius was looking and flicked his sleeve down so that the dead, black fingers were covered.

Sirius' gaze was broken and he finally looked up into Dumbledore's eyes. "What happened to you?"

"A minor mishap," Dumbledore said casually. "We have other things to discuss. First, Hestia asked me to tell you that an owl arrived from Gringotts about an hour ago to inform you that unfortunately your employment there is terminated due to repeated absences and your failure to report to work today. I'm sorry."

Sirius shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he muttered, though he felt a brief flush of regret. It wasn't easy finding work during wartime.

"All the same, cruel timing," Dumbledore said apologetically. "But perhaps not so inconvenient. You are no doubt feeling very distressed and useless but if I might offer some advice, I always find that the best way to keep myself from sorrow is to keep myself occupied. There are things that need organising. Remus left his will in my keeping…"

Sirius bristled. "You're already thinking about that? Only a few hours ago I was speaking to him…!"

"I do not mean to offend you, Sirius. But I feel you are the best person to take charge of Remus' affairs. And I would ask you to do your best to think of your young cousin…"

"Tonks," Sirius remembered the sobbing he had heard and realised that however miserable he was, Tonks would be feeling three times as awful. "Is she alright?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question, but unable to think of anything else to ask.

"Hestia decided it was better she didn't return to Auror headquarters just yet. She has taken Tonks to your cousin Andromeda's house instead. Her mother will be able to look after her well enough. But you and Tonks are sharing a mutual grief. If you could support each other, it would lighten the burden for her greatly, I think. As to the matter of Remus' will: you, Tonks and Harry are the main beneficiaries of what small fortune he possessed, but Maud was also included in it, and as she has vanished, you must decide what to do with her share. And perhaps, if you could, you might be willing to organise the…" Dumbledore paused for the briefest moment as if he knew that from here on he could not take back what he was saying, "…the funeral."

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TBC

A/N: Um. Yes. Writing this chapter made me very, grimly sad. Er…but look…don't give up hope just yet, okay? No corpse, no death, right? Trust me on this one. Hang in there until the next chapter.

Thank you to all reviewers, as always.

I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as I can, but tomorrow I'm…_gah_…getting the results for my school exams in the mail. The very thought is giving my a stomach ulcer, so actually finding out my results will probably push me over the edge and kill me. How can you help? You can review! It only takes a moment, and it makes me feel a hell of a lot better about failing Statistics.

(If I fail Statistics, I will have to repeat it instead of doing Art Painting this year. Can you imagine a year of Statistics instead of Art? Yeah, that's what I'm facing right now. Bleh.)


	15. Harry, Albus, Remus, Neville

A/N: Well, I passed Statistics. I'm a big wobbling pile of relief for that. The rest of my marks were pretty much as expected. Also I have had to make an adjustment to the timeline: Lupin's capture and Frank's departure take place in the FIRST week of August, NOT the third as previously written. Sorry 'bout that, hopefully no one will notice.

Today's chapter – a patchwork of POVs. We have reached critical mass, people! The plots are colliding!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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It seemed as if even Wormtail was acting more twitchy than usual. He had even given up his usual habit of lurking in dark corners and scurrying down the hallways as close to the wall as possible, and had spent the last three days hiding in the room off to the side of the kitchen, where the big fireplace was location – and with it, Harry suspected, the only Floo connection in the house. Perhaps it was just that Harry was nervous about Frank and whether or not the old gardener would be able to find Sirius, and now he was imagining that something was up. But it was difficult to tell.

Perhaps Wormtail hadn't told his master that Frank had left the estate, and was frightened his deception would be revealed. But if Wormtail had really suspected Frank of treachery, surely he wouldn't have allowed him to leave at all? There must be something else bothering the man. Harry just counted it as a blessing that with Wormtail avoiding him even more than usual, he couldn't reveal his own anticipation.

He was certain Frank would find Sirius. How could he not? And before the week was out, the wall of the Riddle estate would have been breached and Harry would be free… it was strange, thinking about that. Even though he wanted it to happen more than anything, he couldn't quite imagine it. It was as if he'd been a prisoner so long he no longer knew what it was he was working so hard for.

He brushed this thought aside. There were other things to think about. Perhaps Frank would be able to contact Sirius, but Sirius wouldn't be able to get over the wall. Or perhaps he just wouldn't want to come alone and needed to gather more wizards – after all, Wormtail might also be able to summon help if he realised the manor was under attack. If it did come about that no one from the outside would be able to get over the wall, Harry and Frank had another plan in reserve. The iron ladder which Frank had painstakingly constructed over the last few weeks was half-finished. Once it was complete, Harry was certain he could climb over the wall himself. If help was close at hand, he wouldn't have to go far…

In his mind, he plotted out every possibility. If his rescuers (he had no names for them except The Rescuers, since all he knew for sure was the Sirius and Moony would be there) got right into the Riddle house, there might be a fight. Harry would surely have to act as a shield for his rescuers, since the Death Eaters didn't dare hurt him. If, on the other hand, he had to climb over the wall to meet them on the other side, he would have to go during the day. He couldn't get out of the house at night, since all the spells on the doors and windows had been strengthened. Where would it be best to put the iron ladder? How could he distract Wormtail long enough to climb over the wall? Would Frank be safe once he had escaped?

The third night after Frank had left for London was the full moon. Harry had almost forgotten, though now that he could see the sky again it should have been easy to keep track of the phases. He was to preoccupied with thoughts about what he was sure was his forthcoming escape, so preoccupied that he nearly walked into the strange man in the hallway.

It was early in the evening, the sun, low in the sky, was casting a rosy glow on the Riddle house, but very little of it was getting through the grimy windows. Harry had been out in the garden and had slipped back inside when he realised how the evening was getting on. His glazed expression disclosed the fact that he was not even trying to watch where he was going when the man walked through the kitchen doorway into his path.

Harry just managed to pull away before he collided with the wide figure. He snapped out of his thoughts and stared. There was a stranger in the house. An enormously fat but rather short stranger, with a ragged silver moustache and the sun shining off a completely bald head. He wore a black cloak over a maroon jacket which looking rather the worse for wear: it was made of velvet, but was unwashed and had an assortment of different buttons. It hung loosely on the stranger, as if he had lost some weight – though Harry could barely believe that this man could have been any _more_ fat than he already was.

"Ah!" said the stranger, his eyes brightening a little. He snapped his fingers as if catching his words out of thin air. "Just the man I was looking for! Here we are," and Harry realised he was holding out a large goblet filled with a smoking topaz liquid. He recognised it as the Wolfsbane potion he had been taking every day for the last week.

Harry stared at him for a few moments before he found his voice. It had been silent since Frank had left and was croaky from disuse. "You're not supposed to be here," he said stupidly.

The fat man smiled, his moustache twitching. "What's that, m'boy?"

Harry flapped his hands hopelessly. "You have to leave! If Wormtail catches you – no one's allowed in the house – they'll _kill_ you, don't you understand?" He didn't know who this man was, or how he had gotten in, but he was certain that if the man didn't leave at once, he was going to meet some big trouble.

"Kill me?" the man blinked, his expression befuddled, then his eyes creased into a smile once more and he gave a deep chuckle. "Goodness, no, you've got the story all wrong! Pettigrew knows I'm here, he let me in. He's just in the other room… I popped out to bring you your potion, that's all…"

Still smiling, he waved the bitter-smelling goblet under Harry's nose.

Harry realised the significance of the black cloak and the man's presence and a lump of disappointment settled in his stomach. "Oh," he said, hunching and sticking his hands in his pockets in the most unfriendly manner he could manage. "You're working for them."

"Now, now," the man spluttered, his cheeks reddening. "Don't think…I mean to say…well I haven't much of a choice, m'boy!"

Harry shrugged and shuffled along to the stairs. He'd heard that argument before, from Wormtail. The disappointment swelled a little in him. For a moment there, he'd thought – he'd _hoped_ – that the man was somehow from outside, coming to help him…but no. He was a Death Eater.

At the bottom of the staircase, Harry turned back to glare at the fat man, who was holding out the still-smoking goblet with a distressed look on his face. At that moment, Wormtail appeared in the doorway behind him. He was looking sweaty and irritated, and he had to squeeze past the stranger to get into the hallway.

"There you a-are," he said as his eyes fell on Harry, and he snatched the goblet out of the fat man's hand and scampered across to Harry. He thrust the goblet into Harry's hand so roughly some of it slopped out on the wooden floor where it hissed on the varnished wooden. "Drink it, quickly now, there's only an hour u-u-until sunset."

Harry swilled the smoking liquid in the goblet then gulped it down as fast as he could, wincing at the stinging hot drink. Wormtail, wringing his hands, had already turned back to the fat man, saying. "Y-you had better get downstairs…"

The fat man wilted a little, letting out an enormous sigh.

"Downstairs," Harry echoed. The only downstairs in the Riddle house was the basement where Harry underwent his monthly transformation. "But I'm going to be downstairs once it gets dark," he said.

Wormtail shot him an exasperated look. "No, you're to return to y-your room for the tonight. Don't try to break down the door, I-I'm going to e-enchant it," he looked positively terrified at the thought of casting a spell to hold a werewolf at bay behind a flimsy wooden door.

Harry liked the idea of being in his room because it meant he would not be chained when he was a werewolf, but wanted to know why he wouldn't be in the basement as usual, and what the fat man would be doing down there. However, as he opened his mouth to ask, three men came out of the kitchen. One was tall, and wearing black robes and a cloak to match the fat man's. The other two were slightly shorter and dressed in ragged brown robes. One was a skinny man with a bushy, greying beard. The other was thickly-muscled, his robes pulled tight over his broad chest, and his matted hair falling away from a whiskered face that was dominated by a cruel grin.

Wormtail gave a whimper and the tall Death Eater stepped aside as Wormtail stumbled towards the other two new men. "What a-are you still doing h-here?" Wormtail cried piteously. "It's moonrise an hour! Y-you must leave…!"

The thickset man looked down at Wormtail disdainfully, his tongue moving behind his yellow teeth. His eyes flicked across the room at Harry, standing at the bottom of the stairs, and Harry gave an involuntary shudder. The thickset man spoke, his voice a rasping kind of bark. "I wanted to see the boy."

Wormtail put his hands to his face despairingly, and wailed. "Yes, y-you've _seen_ him now, y-you've delivered what you came here for… now won't you please…just…leave?"

The thickset man laughed,_ hugh, hugh, _and he and his skinny companion turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry sat down on the bottom stair, his stomach churning from the bitter potion. He was thinking back to all those months ago when he had set the curtains on his room on fire, and a Death Eater named Dolohov had followed Wormtail back to the Riddle house. Wormtail's master had ordered the man's memory obliviated for that accidental discovery. But now there were four Death Eaters wandering around in the front hall, and nobody was even kicking up a fuss. What was going on?

Did this mean that Wormtail's master was no longer concerned about his servants discovering Harry's whereabouts?

Harry, still clutching the goblet, wrapped his arm around his knees. _Hurry back, Frank_, he thought, _I think we're running out of time…_

As the two remaining Death Eaters trooped away down the hall, Wormtail suddenly seemed to remember that Harry was still there. Sounding on the verge of hysteria, he pointed upwards and shouted, "_You! U-upstairs…now!_"

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"Albus!"

Dumbledore was standing in the hallway below his office, watching the sun set below the distant mountains across the forbidden forest. The green lawns of Hogwarts seemed tinged with gold, and the mirror of the lake had turned to glowing red to reflect the sunset. The whole castle, emptied of its students, seemed to be caught in the boughs of sleep, awaiting September when it would awaken and be filled with noise and life once more. The old headmaster turned to see Professor McGonagall hurrying at the corridor towards him, her robes rustling against the stone floor.

"Minerva," he nodded in greeting. "I did not expect to see you here outside of term time."

"I'm searching for you – I heard…" she faltered as she caught sight of Dumbledore's face, devoid of its usual humour. "It's true, then?" she said quietly. "We've lost another member of the Order?" she came to a halt in front of the headmaster and folded her hands in front of her. "I see. It did seem too good to be true. Even after that attack at the muggle orphanage, not a single fatality within our ranks," she sighed. "But no good times last forever."

Dumbledore nodded. "And I fear, my good Minerva, that it never rains – as they say – but it pours."

McGonagall glanced at him curiously, but he had returned his gaze to the rapidly disappearing sun and did not elaborate. Wondering if she was being dismissed, she made to ask him if he would be returning to Grimmauld Place, but before she began to speak, something caught her eye. Frowning, she looked at Dumbledore's right hand and saw that it was black and charred, like a plant that had died.

"Have you been injured?" she asked, gesturing at the blackened hand.

Dumbledore raised his arm and looked at it as if he'd only just noticed something wrong. He shook his head and smiled faintly. "Yes, by my own sluggishness."

"Will it heal?" McGonagall asked in concern. "How did it happen?"

Dumbledore ran one pale, clean finger over the back of his blacked hand and winced. "No, it will not heal. How it happened…" he turn his head to look at McGonagall. "I do apologise, Minerva, but some things are better left secret. As long as you are here, would you care to take tea in my office? We are in mourning, this day, but it does not mean we cannot enjoy a lovely raspberry tea that I have recently procured. And it was always a favourite flavour of Remus's – so, a drink to him, perhaps…"

"Thank you," McGonagall smiled.

After speaking the password, Dumbledore stood aside to let her through the door to his office with a wave of his hand and a characteristic smile. As he followed her in, the smile faded a little as his thoughts returned to her question.

His hand, wounded beyond repair. It was unfortunate, but he felt that so far he had been unaccountably lucky. The black-stoned ring of Marvolo Gaunt was broken, and with it a piece of Voldemort's soul destroyed, but this was not the first. A diary, dated half a century ago, had been taken from the manor of Lucius Malfoy when it had been raided the year before at the beginning of the school term. Dumbledore had destroyed that diary. And he had destroyed a cup with the Hufflepuff crest on it, which had been found nestled within the walls of Hogwarts itself, a hiding place that had disturbed him greatly. Then there was the snake which had accompanied Voldemort wherever he went – it too was gone, slain by a traitor within Voldemort's ranks, nearly costing the spy his cover and his life.

And that left two – a golden locket with the Slytherin 'S', and a black-haired, green-eyed boy.

As he closed the door behind him, Dumbledore glanced back as the final rays of the sun sunk away and vanished, and the gold and red light shining across the Hogwarts grounds began to diminish, mourning a Gryffindor.

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A dull ache was all that he was aware of at first, a throbbing pain in his head, the weak sting of a recently healed wound. Then, slowly, the rest of his senses returned to him, one by one. His nose was full of inhospitable scents, mildew, bodily smells of sweat, a harsh smell that was familiar but he couldn't yet place. He could hear someone moving nearby: the soft murmur of boiling water, and a person grumbling, too quiet for him to pick the words.

He opened his eyes, blinking to clear them. Slowly, trying to minimise the shooting pains up and down his neck, Lupin raised his head and took in his surroundings.

Soft candlelight illuminated the room. It was small but long, about four metres by ten, and made of dusty bricks and rotting plaster, cold and damp by the look of the moss growing in the cracks of the concrete floor. A single window faced him, high on the wall: through it, he saw a dark, twilight sky, with the last red rays of the sun sinking out of sight. To his right was an unlit stairway leading straight up and away, apparently the only passage in or out.

A table was set against the wall in front of him, and a man wearing a long black cloak was standing with his back to Lupin, busying with something. He shifted a bit and Lupin saw what was making the sound like water boiling: a small cauldron was standing on the table, hissing over a buttery yellow flame. Two dark-coloured bottles and a tarnished silver goblet were sitting beside the cauldron: the man with his back turned was stirring the potion slowly. White smoke flowed out of it, dissipating before it reached the surface of the table.

Lupin tried to stand up and found he couldn't. Groggily, he look down and saw that he was sitting in a large wooden chair, hard and featureless. His hands were on the armrests, and thin chains were looped around his wrists, binding him very tightly. He recognised the metal: it was silver, connected to chains set into the bricks of the walls. He tried to move and found there were more chains binding his ankles to the legs of the chair, biting into his skin.

Now nearly awake, panic began to bubble up in Lupin. He was trapped – captive – how? What had happened? Who? Where was he?

He took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to steady his wildly beating heart. First of all, how long had he been knocked out? By the ache of hunger throbbing in his stomach, he would say at least a day – and his lips were dry and chapped from thirst. He began to sift through his thoughts, trying to cast his mind back to last thing he remembered.

He'd Flooed Sirius, to tell him what he'd discovered – but then…then he'd heard noises: stood up, drawn his wand… the rest was just blur, madness – faces and shouting and his curses smashing off the kitchen cupboards. _Fenrir Greyback_ – him, Lupin remembered. But how was it possible? Emmeline Vance said she had wounded him badly, and no one had heard from him since that night when he had attacked the Orphanage – he should have been dead. Greyback's face, the faces of other werewolves, and Maud…

A caustic feeling began to spread through Lupin's guts. Maud had been standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, and Lupin had shouted at her to run…

But she hadn't run. The other werewolves had overcome Lupin and roughly subdued him, twisting his arms behind him back until he had cried out in pain. They had taken his wand and broken it before his eyes – the _snap_ of the splintering wood still echoed in Lupin's head. And Maud had stood and watched, and then she had rushed to Greyback's side and pawed at his arm, her face a mask of adoration. And Greyback had stroked her hair, they way you pet a dog that's fetched a stick for you, and _smiled_ at Maud.

"Good girl," Greyback had said to Maud.

It wasn't until then that Lupin had realised who had betrayed him.

Thinking back on it, Lupin grimaced, and winced as he felt the bruises on his face. Yes, Greyback and his cronies had been very rough. He licked his lip and tasted dried blood, but whether it was from the split lip or from his nose, which felt as if it was swollen as large as a pumpkin, he didn't know. He knew he must look a mess from the pummelling, and it seemed no one had bothered to clean him up, except the gash on his temple, which wasn't bleeding any more. But the other werewolves had stopped short of actually killing him – why?

Because Fenrir had stopped them. "That's enough," his hoarse voice had growled. "We were told not to let him die. Let's get out of here." That was where the memory stopped. It was also was the part that most perplexed Lupin. Who was it wanted him alive? Not Fenrir Greyback, who should have been dead anyway. There was no answering this riddle.

Gritting his teeth, Lupin leaned back against the chair. _Well, looks like this is how it ends_. This was it: he was not getting out of this one. His throat constricted as a pale, heart-shaped face floated across the surface of his mind. But Tonks had always been too much for him to wish for. She was young, she would get over him. And Sirius… Sirius would act difficult, but he would move on. He had Harry to think about.

_Harry…I wish I could have seen you once, at the least, _Lupin thought.

His thoughts were broken by movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw there was a second man he hadn't realised was in the room. He was also wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled low over his face. He looked like a very short, fat man, and he had been sitting against the wall, possibly asleep. Now he levered himself to his feet, and the man standing in front of the cauldron looked over at him.

"Think it's ready?"

"Obviously," wheezed the fat man, coming over to peer into the small cauldron. "Yes, good."

The thin man turned around and glanced at Lupin. His chin could be seen below his hood, and a smile warped his lips. "Look who's awake."

The fat man looked at Lupin as well, but he didn't reply, merely raised his hand and touched his brow in a nervous gesture, as if wiping away drops of sweat. The thin man turned back and dipped the goblet into the smoking cauldron.

"How much?"

"Half a cupful," said the fat man, wringing his hands. "Should be enough. Look – I'm almost sure it perfect – but – er – what if it doesn't work?"

"You try again," said the thin man, raising the goblet. Smoke rolled over the lip of the cup and poured over his hands. "We're going to hold on to him for as long as need be, until you get it right."

"Right," nodded the fat man. He shuffled around a little to watch the thin man, who was approaching Lupin with the goblet. Lupin snarled at him and drew away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

Suddenly the fat man spoke. "And…er…what if it _does_ work? What are you going to do with him? And…me?"

The thin man looked over his shoulder at the fat man. "Him? I suppose he'll be given to Greyback. You? I don't know. You'll have to wait and find out," he finished nastily.

Lupin wriggled against the chains binding him to the chair. There was something very familiar about the potion, though the smoke was thicker, the smell slightly different. He did not know for sure that what was in that goblet was what he thought it was, but he knew he did not want it anywhere near him, either way.

The thin man grasped Lupin's chin in a vice-like grip and forced his head back in a practised fashion. He ignored Lupin's struggles completely, as if he was doing nothing more routine than changing a light-bulb. With one hand, he managed to force Lupin's jaw open.

"Come on, it's not poison.," he said with a sneer as tipped the goblet into Lupin's mouth.

The potion was hot and bitter: it tasted foul, and familiar. But he had to drink, or inhale. To keep himself from choking, he swallowed, and the man kept pouring until all of the potion was gone. Then he released Lupin, who gasped and leaned forward, racked with coughs. Some of the potion, topaz-coloured, had spilled down his chin and dripped onto his robes, and it smelled awful. His head was spinning, and he retched violently, his stomach squirming as the hot potion hit it.

"Don't throw it up, now," said the thin man, slapping Lupin on the back until his coughs subsided. "We'll just force down another goblet, and you'll be all covered in sick, won't you?"

"Go hang yourself," wheezed Lupin, coughing again. It felt as if half the liquid had gone into his lungs rather than down his throat.

The thin man just laughed, and turned back to his companion. "How do we know it has worked?"

The fat man pointed at the window, and all three of them turned to look at it. The red sunlight was gone, now: only the faintest glow remained as the deep blue night spread across the sky.

"We'll know," said the fat man, "soon enough."

The thin man leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "And at midnight, we give him the second one?"

"Yes," nodded the fat man. His voice was shaking. "The third at dawn."

The thin man nodded, and yawned widely, showing several missing teeth. "Gonna be a long night, sitting down here. Suppose we're not allowed to play with him a bit?"

The fat man trembled, and his voice was laced with badly-concealed revulsion at the idea of 'play'. "You won't want to. He's a werewolf, remember."

The thin man laughed as if this was a particularly witty joke. "Alright, no fun. I guess you're not into that sort of thing anyway. Fancy a game of cards?"

The fat man shrugged and shuffled back towards the corner of the room. The thin man pulled a scruffy pack of exploding snap cards out of his pocket and sat down beside him, sorting them quickly.

Lupin bent his head, his throat stinging. Now he knew how long he had been knocked out, and what night it was. He could feel it, approaching steadily, inevitably. And this explained the silver chains and the potion: it had, indeed, been what he thought it was: Wolfsbane. But with something slightly different added to it.

Across the room, the thin man said in a jovial voice. "Hope I get to watch them throw him to Greyback's lot. Should be good fun, eh? Won't they bite him?"

"Won't matter," said the thin man, who sounded slightly ill. "If it works, he'll be immune."

"Oh, well, I suppose they'll kill him pretty quickly anyway," shrugged the thin man.

Through the window, the clouds had cleared and the sky was black and speckled with stars. A light that was not sunlight, but clear and silverly, was flowing into the room. Lupin's chair had been carefully positioned so that the moonlight struck his face as it rose, and he felt a shiver run through him, his muscles tensed. He wanted to cry out, but his throat had seized up. The familiar prickling sensation broke out over his skin, and the silver chains bit into his wrists as he began to transform.

-------------------------------------------

"_I said that I was not to be disturbed, Wormtail…_"

"_I-I came to tell you, master…we think it's worked…_"

Silence.

"_O-of course, we'll wait…to make sure…but so f-far…_"

"_Thank you, Wormtail. You may go._"

With a jolt, Neville awoke, his stomach lurching as if he was aboard a ship in rough weather, his forehead burning as if he had fallen face-down in a fireplace. He kept his eyes closed until his spinning head began to steady, pressing his hand to his forehead and gritting his teeth against the pain.

At last it subsided and he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom and wishing his Gran approved of dreamless sleeping potions. Not that they would help, not against nightmares like this. But at least he'd be able to get back to sleep afterwards.

Knowing from experience that he wouldn't be getting another wink of sleep tonight, he lurched out of bed and rubbed his eyes with a yawn. He flicked his slippers out from under his bed – they were shaped like bunnies, but Gran wouldn't buy him new ones until he'd worn the old ones out – and picked up a jacket from the back of his chair. He was drenched in cold sweat.

He padded over to his desk, cluttered with pencils, trinkets and empty sweet wrappers. Parting the curtains a little, he saw that the sky was lightening in the east, dawn close at hand, and out of sight a full moon was sinking over the west horizon. Seating himself at the desk and switching on the lamp, Neville reached for a book on Magical Water Plants which he had bought for himself. The rest of the books in his bookshelf were, for the most part, unopened and beginning to gather dust. They were titles aimed at children much younger than Neville, but his many relatives could not keep track of his birthdays, and still sent him gifts more fit for someone of seven years old than thirteen.

Neville tried to concentrate on a page about sea lettuce, but his eyes slid in and out of focus and his mind kept returning to the dream, and the cold high voice. And another man, saying, _"it worked…"_ Dumbledore should know about this.

Neville shook his head. The dream had not been urgent, just another fragment like the many others he had glimpsed over the year. He was not going to go crying to Dumbledore at all hours of the night. Even if the headmaster always asked to know about all of Neville's dreams, Neville could write to him in the morning. He felt a little guilty, since Dumbledore might be angry that Neville had not been practising Occlumency, but Neville could deal with that. Besides, it wasn't that he didn't practise clearing his mind before he slept at night – he _did_ try – but it was so difficult. He could never clear his mind completely…

His drifting eyes spied a crumpled ball of paper shoved to the back of his desk, and he pulled it closer and unfolded it. It was an unfinished letter, the ink now smeared and blotchy. He's written it about a week ago, on the day after his birthday, but it had never been sent.

"_Professor,_" the letter began, "_I fell asleep this afternoon and had another dream about Harry. My first since you began teaching my Occlumency. There was something different about this one. At the end of it, he looked into my – or You-Know-Who's – eyes and he said my name. As if he could see me looking out at him. I think I sort of panicked and tried to pull back and wake up, but it was as if You-Know-Who knew I was there and was trying to keep me from getting away. That's never happened before. He raised his wand and cast a spell on Harry, but I still hadn't woken up. I thought…"_

That was where the letter ended, that was when Neville had crumpled it up and tossed it across his desk. It should have finished _I thought I was going to be trapped in his head, that I would never wake up_ but somehow he couldn't tell Dumbledore this. He couldn't tell anyone. It was too horrifying a thought.

He had abandoned the letter and made the excuse to himself that Dumbledore would be angry when he found out Neville's Occlumency was not working, but that was a weak excuse.

Neville rested his chin on his hand and stared moodily out the window, trying to sort out his thoughts. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were even _his_ thoughts, and not You-Know-Who's thoughts. And then he wondered (and this _was_ for the first time) what if they weren't his _or_ You-Know-Who's? What if they were Harry's thoughts?

"I have to find you," Neville muttered to himself. "I have to meet you, Harry. I'll never be able to sort myself out until I know who you are, really know."

Ron and Hermione were looking for Harry, and Neville was doing his best to help them, though hanging around with them hadn't done much good so far. They were keeping him up-to-date on everything they learned, which was mostly bits and pieces dredged from writing letters to Tonks and following Professor Jones around until she answered their questions. Hermione had even gone to Ron's house for the second half of the summer, so that the two of them could continue their investigations without the interruption of school. They hadn't told Neville they were visiting each other over the summer, presumably so that they wouldn't hurt his feelings by not inviting him, but he had overheard them talking about it in class.

But at the rate they were going, they would never find Harry without some kind of a miracle.

-------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: I just realised I totally screwed up the timeline. _Headdesk. Headdesk. Headdesk._ I actually can't count…_four_ weeks between full moons. _Four!_ Not _two,_ you stupid…friggin…grrrr… (Tawa reaches for a large, heavy object to hit herself over the head with…) I must have been very lucky to pass Statistics, with this kind of mental arithmetic.

This doesn't really set things back except that I must rearrange a few minor details in previous chapters. CORRECTION: The two coinciding events of Lupin's capture and Frank leaving the Riddle house to search for Sirius take place in the _first_ week of August, not the third. I _think_ that pretty much solves all the problems with the full moon rising two weeks early… I'll go back and change it now… (sound of profanities from off-screen.)

Not to worry, I'm sure nobody was actually keeping time. You shouldn't even notice the difference.

I do appreciate anyone picking up mistakes in the story, as I certainly haven't been able to correct them all.

Cheers for today. Next chapter – Frank gets somewhere.


	16. Ottery St Catchpole

A/N: It's the longest chapter ever…I'm not kidding, you may want to spread it out over quite a period of time…it's so long I'd take to it with a pair of hedge clippers I weren't such a wuss…

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"You getting off here?" the bus driver asked. With the theatrics of great effort he twisted around to look at Frank, seated a few rows behind. The old man, his cap askew, was jolted out of his thoughts and took a moment to register the bus driver's question.

The bus was idling on the edge of a lightly wooded road, where a decrepit blue sign declared _bus stop_ to the sunlit trees, which stood rooted without giving any indication that they required a bus to stop at all. There was no other sign of habitation, except for a thin tarseal road cutting away into the scanty forest.

"I thought this bus stopped at the village?" Frank queried, his joints aching at the mere thought of being put into use after the long and shuddering ride.

The bus driver jerked his thumb at the small road. "This is as close as you get. It's a short walk that-a-way."

Frank pressed his lips together in resignation and slowly got to his feet, hearing his back creaking and the complaints of what he was sure was his muscles stretching. He thanked the bus driver half-heartedly, picked up his travelling case and walking cane, and hobbled off the bus. The bus driver did not even bid him farewell, but slammed the vehicle back into gear and chugged away without looking back. Frank watched him disappear around the corner and then limped across the road and onto the thin lane that the driver had indicated.

It was only about ten minutes walk before the trees gave way to furrowed fields. Frank found himself standing on the lip of a wide bowl in the landscape, hills surrounding a perfect nest. Below him and around the corner of the headland he could make out the outskirts of a small village.

A white signpost greeted him at the next bend in the road; its letters hand-carved and painted a soothing dark blue, and reading _Ottery St Catchpole. _

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Number twelve Grimmauld Place did not exist. This was the only conclusion Frank had come to. Two days of searching London had revealed only one street named Grimmauld Place. Frank had tracked it down and plodded along it, keeping a close eye on the letterboxes on either side, clutching the scuffed and bloody letter deep in his coat pocket. At the end of the street, he came to a halt and had to rub his eyes once to convince himself that what he was seeing was not some strange hallucination. Number eleven and number thirteen stood side by side – of number twelve, there was no a trace.

_Poor Harry must be insane, after all_, was Frank's first thought. His second was, _Now what am I to do? This was supposed to be the end of this wretched adventure! _His third was even more venomous_; I've had enough of this conspiracy. I'm _not_ going to go gallivanting across the whole country looking for the imaginary rescuer of a mad boy. I'm going home to my garden._

But, of course, that was not what he had done.

He'd gone asking about number Twelve Grimmauld Place, but if it had existed, none of the neighbours seemed to be able to remember precisely where. One of them, a scrawny old woman in track pants who smelled of cigarettes, eventually recalled that there had been someone living next door who had vanished without a trace. A long-haired lout who always wore funny clothes, and a boy who'd walked past her house every day, with a face "messed-up something awful." But she could not provide any more information, and Frank parted with a dreary feeling that he had hit an impassable chasm in what should have been the simple act of delivering a letter.

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In the village of Ottery St Catchpole, Frank Bryce stopped at the post office and asked for directions to the farmstead run by the Weasley family. The lady at the desk was a tiny, mousy girl with enormous spectacles. She tipped her head on one side like a squirrel and said, "Don't know that name, sir, I'm sorry."

"Weasley," Frank wheezed, leaning on his cane, "W – E – A –"

"No, sorry, sir, there's no one in the village with that name," the woman put her hands overtop of one another and peered at him. "Are you sure you've got it right? You're not thinking of Weatherby? They run the butchers just down the road…"

"No, it's definitely Weasley," said Frank, feeling gloomy now. Not another dead end. Surely he hadn't come all this way only to find the people he was looking for had moved out? Was it possible Frank was in the wrong village? But there was nowhere else for miles… "I think sometimes the farmstead is known as the Burrow," he said, trying to remember everything Harry had told him about his school friends, which was quite a lot.

The mousy girl scratched her chin with her nails, which were bitten down to stubs. "You know, now you mention it," she looked at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment, "I think maybe there could be a place like that round here somewhere. Burrow, you said?"

"That's right," Frank knew his patience was not going to last much longer.

"Yes, we had a couple of funny folk come in last year asking after a Burrow," the girl nodded. "Dodgy pair, really, all done up like they was in a parade of something, big bright jackets as long as their ankles and these hats all pointy-like, you know, like ladies used to wear in medieval times. You know the sort, with the veils hanging down, only they didn't have no veils."

"I know," said Frank, gripping his cane and longing to hit someone. "Did they find this Burrow Place?"

"Yeah, turned out they were looking for that odd family, the ones that live way up in the forest," the mousy girl said, nodding. "Funny lot. Hardly ever see them around, keep to themselves, I guess. The red-haired fellow comes down to buy things from the mechanics store. His wife uses the phone box outside sometimes. They got about twenty kids, I reckon, she seems to have a different one with her every time she comes."

"That sounds like the people I'm looking for," said Frank, feeling a bit more at ease. "Could you give me directions to their house?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so," said the girl in a procrastinating manner. She took her time finding a spare piece of paper to draw a map on as if she hoped Frank would get bored and go away. Frank stood resolutely in place. Finally she pushed a quick sketch of the village roads across the counter to him and indicated the directions with her pen. "That should take you straight there," she finished.

"Thank you," said Frank. His grip on his walking stick relaxed. Finally he was getting somewhere.

--------------------------------------

By the time he had reached the top of the hill, Frank felt as if his old bones were finally ready to give way. His bad leg ached so much the other leg was starting to hurt just out of sympathy. At last, as he came around a bend in the rugged farm track that the girl at the post office had directed him to, he paused to look upon the strangest house he had ever seen.

It was several stories high, but looked as if a good strong breeze might send it toppling into its own hodge-podge vegetable garden. Each storey seemed to be made out of something different, and there were windows popping out at random intervals, as if drawn on by a child with no sense of architectural aesthetics. The roof was thatched, and several chimneys stuck out the top, bent and shabby as if they were held together by nothing more than paperclips. In the yard, chickens were pecking about in clusters. They fled as Frank approached, clucking loudly.

Frank was only halfway across the yard when the front door opened and a stout, red-haired boy come out. He was wearing a dark blue home-knitted sweater and pointing something at Frank. For a terrifying moment Frank thought it might be a gun, but then he realised it was nothing more than a small rod, or a stick of some kind. When the boy saw Frank he lowered the rod at once.

"Hello! Sorry about that, anti-intruder alarms blaring off and all, thought you might be…well, never mind. You from the village?" he called cheerily, stowing the strange stick into his back pocket.

Frank, rather out of breath, paused a few feet away from the boy and said. "No, I'm a visitor."

"Yes, I rather gathered that," said the boy. "I mean, are you our kind or not?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Frank, feeling a little irritated and wishing the boy would invite him inside. Children were so inconsiderate.

"That'd be a no, then," shrugged the boy with a quick wink. "Are you lost?"

Frank straightened up. "No, I'm not lost. I'm looking for Weasleys."

The boy raised his eyebrows as if he didn't quite believe Frank was telling the truth. "Well, you found us."

"That's good to know," Frank tried not to sound sarcastic. "Couldn't you offer me a cup of tea or something, lad? I've just walked all the way up your blasted hill."

To his great annoyance, the boy seemed to think about this for a while before finally saying, a little reluctantly, "Alright, come inside, then." He stepped back onto the threshold, not even holding the door open for Frank, who followed him inside.

Within the house, it was just as curious as outside. The kitchen Frank was standing in reminded him very much of a burrow of some kind, which explained the name. The walls were hung with every conceivable utensil, and so many types of vegetables and dried herbs Frank did not think he could pick them all, and he _was_ a gardener. The only clear surface was the wooden table in the centre, and he sunk gratefully into a spindly chair beside it.

"Who is it, George?"

Frank looked up and blinked. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if the blood had gone to his head too fast. The boy who had met him at the door had been joined by a second boy who was identical in every way, right down to the last freckle, except that he was wearing a dark yellow sweater instead of blue.

"I dunno," the first boy, George, glanced at Frank with just as much irritation as Frank was feeling. "Some old codger from the village, I think. Probably wants to talk to Dad about all those toenail clippers he ordered from the chemist the other day."

"Excuse me," said Frank loudly. "I'm not _completely_ deaf, you know."

Both boys looked at him as though they had forgotten he could talk. George's twin opened his mouth to say something, but just then a third red-haired boy came into the kitchen behind him, this new one wearing horn rimmed glasses and an austere expression. Frank remembered what the man at the post-office had said about the Weasleys having twenty children, and had a strange vision of twenty red-haired babies down a rabbit hole.

"If you don't _mind _taking a hand in controlling our sister," the austere boy said haughtily. "She's making an awful racket through the wall and I'm trying to read…who on earth is that?" his eyes fell on Frank and he jumped as if he'd been given a quick electric shock.

A fourth redhead entered the room, this one a girl carrying a small tin which was rattling loudly. "Oh, Percy, stop complaining, I was just tidying up. Look, Fred! I caught another Doxy in my room, d'you want it…?" Then she saw Frank and said, "Oh!" in a rather bemused voice. "Who's that?" she quickly shoved the rattling tin into her pocket, out of sight.

"I'm Frank Bryce," said Frank angrily, "and I am bone-weary and would appreciate a cup of tea, if somebody would oblige."

The two twins looked at each other. Frank distinctly heard Fred mutter, "What're we supposed to do? I don't know how to use the kettle without mag-"

"Oh, for goodness' sake," said the girl, pushing past her brothers and going to fill the kettle from the sink. Frank noticed that the tap turned on without her touching it, and shook his head, "Did you come here about Dad's toenail clippers?" the girl asked Frank politely.

"No," said Frank. "No, I just came looking for Weasleys. I was sent by a boy called Harry Potter."

There was a very loud crash as the girl dropped the kettle into the sink, breaking several dishes that had been underneath it. Fred and George, who had been whispering to each other, each turned their heads so sharply they looked like a pair of owls, especially as their eyes had grown as wide and round as billiard balls. The girl was staring at Frank with her mouth hanging open, apparently unaware that the tap was still gushing water all over her hands.

One of the twins, Fred, stepped back, stuck his head out the door, and bellowed, "_Ron! Ron, Hermione, get down here quick! This is so urgent you wouldn't believe!_"

George was still gaping at Frank as if he had sprouted an extra head. "Say that again," he said, gulping. "Say it with a straight face."

"I was sent by Harry Potter," Frank swelled proudly at the reaction these words produced.

"Blimey, he's not joking," said the boy, shaking his head.

There came the loud thumping of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a third red-haired boy, lankier and slightly taller than the first two, emerged into the kitchen. A bushy-haired girl still trying to pull her hair into a ponytail followed him.

"What? What is it?" the new boy said. He looked younger than his two brothers, but was already nearly as tall as them. The bushy-haired girl's hair-band snapped and in impatient irritation she pushed her hair back from her face.

"Say it again," George nodded eagerly. "Say it, go on!"

"I was sent by Harry Potter," repeated Frank for the third time.

The new boy, Ron, simply stared at him for a moment. The bushy-haired girl grabbed his arm, and said in a squeaky voice, "Is he serious?"

"Course I'm serious," said Frank. "And I can tell you exactly how serious I am, if someone would only hurry up and serve me my ruddy tea."

-------------------------------------

The tea had a strong flavour, and smelled of musk. Frank sipped it out of a bowl-like teacup with two handles, as the children moved around him in a slow shuffle, pretending to clean the dishes or rearrange stacks of old newspapers but unable to take their eyes off him. Percy was pretending to read a book but he hadn't turned any pages and he kept flicking glances at Frank. They were all speaking in whispers like people in a museum and saying funny words like "Floo" that Frank thought might have been Welsh or something. He drained the teacup and placed it back onto the table.

It was as if everyone else had been holding his or her breath. They dropped their feigned activities and leapt to the table at once.

"Well?" one of the twins – Frank had already forgotten which was which – asked impatiently. "Don't keep us in suspense, my good man!"

Frank cleared his throat. The children leaned forward. Frank put his hands together on the table. "I'm a gardener," he said. "I've been befriended by your young Mr Potter over the past few weeks and he has told me all he can about his situation. When he first contacted me he sent me this," Frank took the yellowed, brown-splodged letter and flattened it out on the table, "to give to his Godfather. But I haven't been able to locate the man. I'm hoping you can help."

He folded his arms again and there was a quick tussle for the letter. One of the twins snatched it out of the other's hand while Ron and Ginny both slapped each other's wrists to reach it first. Percy and Hermione were simply pushed aside. The twin with the letter (it might have been George) held it out of their reach and read it aloud. When he had finished, everyone returned their gaze to Frank.

"Sirius Black. Where's he?" Ron asked, glancing at his twin brothers. "He's friends with Professor Jones, isn't he? Can she find him?"

"Don't look at us, we don't know," Fred shrugged. "We don't spend our detentions rummaging through her address book."

"We should call Dad. I bet Mr Black's in the Order," Ginny piped up.

"Father is on business with his _group_," Percy said, frowning at his sister. Percy did have a point; since they knew Frank would be going straight back to close contact with Death Eaters, spreading information about the Order was not a sensible course of action. "He won't be back for several days yet. We shouldn't bother him, he sounded very distressed when he left, and he said something awful had happened in the group. And Mother said she's coming home tomorrow night…"

"But Mum said we're not allowed to use the fireplace, the Floo network's too risky at the moment!"

"This is an emergency," Ron pointed out.

"All the more reason we cannot take the chance of being overheard in the fireplace," Percy said.

"You won't mind staying for the night until Mrs Weasley gets home? She can contact Mr Black," Hermione said, turning entreatingly to Frank.

Frank, who had completely lost track of the conversation once everyone had begun talking about fireplaces, blanched and shook his head. "I can't," he said helplessly. "The caretaker of the house where Harry is being held will be suspicious if I'm not back tomorrow. I'll have to catch a bus in the morning just to make I return in time as it is."

A worried groan ran around the circle. Hermione waved her hand to silence them. "It's alright," she said, though she sounded flustered. "Mr Bryce can tell us everything we need to know and we'll pass it on," she looked at Frank hopefully. "Can't you, Mr Bryce?"

"Of course," said Frank. "The estate where I work is situated above a little-" and here he paused, as if something had just occurred to him. He began again, "Above a place called…" and again, he stopped mid-sentence. A frown spread across his face. "I've come from-" but he seemed to have forgotten what he was trying to say. All the children tersely waited, but though Frank opened his mouth, no words came out.

"Has he fallen asleep?" Fred asked, cutting through the silence. "Poke him, Ginny, wake him up."

"I am not asleep!" Frank protested angrily. "What I was trying to say was…" but what he was trying to say would not come to him. He tried to say, _Harry's in Little Hangleton,_ and he tried to say, _guarded by Peter Pettigrew_, but as the words reached his jaw they seemed to slip away from him and his tongue lay limply in his mouth. "Damn it!" he said furiously, balling his fists.

Hermione gave a little gasp. "Oh! It's a jinx," she said faintly. Everyone turned to look at her, but she was staring at Frank with a look of great concentration. "Or more than one. It won't let you tell us anything – anything of value," she put her hands to her mouth and looked at the ceiling for a moment like someone doing arithmetic in their head. Then she leapt up and dashed out of the room, crying, "Just hold on for a moment!"

"What?" Frank said, watching the faces of the other children, who looked just as confused as he felt. "What's she talking about?"

Percy straightened his glasses. "It must be mighty complex," he said sullenly. "To differentiate between useful information and ordinary speech. We've never learned anything that complex at school."

"What, you mean you can't cast it, Perce?" one the twins said sarcastically. "Fancy that! It _must_ be fabulous if soon-to-be-Head-Boy Percy can't!"

"No," Hermione's voice cut off the argument before it could begin. She had come back into the room carrying a heavy book with the title displayed in spidery writing.

"That's my NEWT level Defence book!" Percy said indignantly.

"Yes, I got it from your room." Hermione waved him off without taking her eyes away from the book. "It must be a whole layer of jinxes," Hermione muttered to the room in general. "To keep you from revealing Harry's location. As long as you're under the jinx, you won't be able to describe the location or give directions to it."

"Jinx?" Frank repeated, "What is this nonsense?"

"You mean there's no way for him to tell us _anything?"_ Ron said in horror overtop of Frank.

"It's not infallible," Hermione shook her head and sat down at the table with the book. She also pulled out a notepad and poised her pencil over it. Fred and George leaned over to read the open spell-book while Percy peered over their shoulders to make sure it was being treated properly. Hermione pointed to the paragraph she was reading from. "It says here that the simplest way to get around such jinxes is to talk to someone who isn't under the jinx but who will know the information without realising it is important. They mean, Mr Bryce, that you direct us to someone who knows the name of the…town, I assume is what you were trying to say before…but isn't under the jinx. Anyone who lives there would suffice. But…" she trailed off, thinking to herself.

Frank was totally lost. He remembered all the times Harry had spouted rubbish about magic and curses. So these children believed in the same things?

"Right, then!" Fred stood up. "This is simple enough. He can show us to the village."

"I'll go get the car," added George, also getting to his feet.

"No!" Hermione cried, so anxiously that the twins sat down together with a bump. "Because he's bound to be enchanted with that curse that makes you forget where you're going – don't you remember the one Professor Lupin told us about at the start of the year, Ron?" she asked.

Ron shook his head blankly.

"As soon as Mr Bryce tries to lead anyone back to the location in the curse – in this case, wherever Harry is – he'll forget where it is!" Hermione explained.

"Then we have to take that risk," Ron shrugged. "There's a chance he's not under the curse, isn't there?"

"Ron, do you really think the Death Eaters won't have done _something _to keep him from leading people back to Harry?" Hermione said in exasperation. "Professor Lupin said the curse would make a person forget _permanently!_ So Mr Bryce won't be able to ever get back, and of course the Death Eaters will know there's been a breach of their security and that will only make things worse for Harry – whatever we do we _have_ to make sure they don't get an _inkling_ that Mr Bryce has gone searching for help. He'll have to go back to Harry alone, before anyone gets suspicious…all we can do is work around the jinxes to find out where he is…oh, this is going to be difficult…"

"Slow down. You were talking about a Professor Lupin?" asked Frank suddenly. Everything returned their attention to him. Hermione nodded hurriedly.

Frank scratched his chin. "Not a Professor _Remus_ Lupin?"

"Yeah…you know him?" Ron said eagerly.

"Professor Remus Lupin, the statistician?"

The red-haired children remained blank, but Hermione gave out a trilling laugh. "He's not a statistician, he's a wiz… I mean, a schoolteacher," she said. "A statistician is like a muggle mathematician," she explained to the confused Weasleys. "He deals with statistics, you see?" But none of them seemed to know what this word meant.

"I'd be bloody surprised if there were two Professor Remus Lupins," Fred said, wrinkling his nose. "Not exactly a common combination of names, is it?"

"Was he youngish?" Hermione asked Frank. "Brownish, greying hair? Soft-spoken?"

"Thoroughly in need of a good anti-aging potion?" George added.

Frank nodded to Hermione. "That sounds like the bloke. He was living in the local motel for a couple of weeks in June. I met him buying groceries. The rest of the town didn't really trust him – being an outsider, and all – and I'm, er, not too friendly with them myself, so we got to talking. He said he was taking statistics on local schools. It all sounded rather boring but I remember him because of the funny name. I imagine he would know everything you need, if he is the fellow you are talking about."

"Oh!" Ginny squeaked, flapping her hands in excitement. "Dad said that Professor Lupin had been spying for the Order-"

"The _group_," Percy corrected her.

"-and he was pretending to work for Fenrir Greyback! Dad says that Professor Lupin told him he was living with muggles _to find out about large groups of muggle children!_" her voice faded a little. "You know…because Mr Greyback was planning to attack the orphanage…"

Hermione had been scribbling in her notepad every few moments, and now her head shot up. She was grinning. "Then we can _easily_ get around the jinx! Professor Lupin will know what the name of the town is – and _he_ won't be under any enchantment! We can tell the Order – I mean the group, Percy – as soon as your mum gets home!"

The atmosphere in the room was crackling with excitement. Ginny was clinging to George's arm and beaming at Frank. Fred flashed Percy a grin and punched him teasingly, and even Percy had to return a triumphant smile. Ron thumped Hermione on the back, winding her on the edge of the table.

"The Aurors will be able to rescue him, just as soon as they know where he is," Hermione said once she had recovered her breath and brushed off Ron's apology.

"I can't wait to meet him for real, with you guys always talking about him," Ginny said wistfully.

_And I would like to see this adventure done and finished_, Frank thought to himself.

-------------------------------------

A large bag of shopping lay abandoned by the door. Outside, a few stars were pricking the azure evening sky. Molly Weasley, still wrapped up in her well-worn travelling cloak and with a home-knitted scarf draped around her neck, was sitting at the kitchen table. In her hand was a yellowed piece of paper, torn, wrinkled, brittle, and covered in a rough scrawl in a blotchy dark brown. Molly's hand holding the letter was trembling, and her other hand was raised as if she had meant to cup her mouth and forgotten halfway through the action.

"Mum, you should go and tell the Order right now!" Ron stood behind his mother, his face still bright and rosy with excitement. Hermione was leaning on the table beside him. "We'll ask Professor Lupin where he's been in June and they can rescue Harry at once – the Death Eaters won't suspect a thing…"

His mother gave a tiny gasp like a hiccough and closed her eyes.

"Mrs Weasley?" Hermione asked, frowning in concern. "What is it?"

Molly Weasley's empty hand went to her chest and closed over her heart. Ron looked startled and rubbed her shoulder, asking her if she was ill. His mother shook her head, placed the letter on the table, and told them the news that she had only that day procured. That Professor Lupin was dead.

-----------------------------------

Hermione was sleeping in a room with Ginny, but her bed was empty and Ron found her sitting on the stairs up to the attic with her knees drawn right up to her nose. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the children had gone to bed, but Hermione was still wearing her daywear. In the candlelight her hair looked limp and dusty like clothes that had not been worn for many years, and her eyes were dulled and unfocused.

"Mum's taking the letter to Harry's Godfather," Ron said, uncertain as to whether or not Hermione had even noticed he was there. "And the Order is going to check the destinations of all the muggle bus routes that go past our village. She said they're hopeful…they've got a lot of new clues to go on, I mean…"

Hermione didn't move. Ron held out a dressing gown, feeling hopeless. She didn't take it.

But after a moment she spoke. "I really thought he was coming home. We messed up, didn't we?" she whispered.

Ron let his arm drop to his side where the dressing gown pooled on the wooden floorboards. He looked over Hermione's head at the dark attic stairs and swallowed audibly. "Yeah," he said, his voice cracking at the end. "I think we did."

------------------------------------

Harry looked out the window every evening before he went to bed, waiting to see smoke drifting from the chimney of Frank's cottage. It was such a stone-age signal, smoke. An ancient wind-borne messenger, with such a medley of meanings originating from fire. To Harry, the smoke meant only that Frank was back, and to him that meant everything.

When he saw the light in Frank's window and the smoke in the air on the evening of the fifth day since the old gardener had left, he tried to rush out and visit him at once. It wasn't until he nearly ran smack into the brick wall blocking the stairwell that he realised the sensible option if he did not wish to rouse Wormtail's suspicions was to stay put until the morning. He could barely sleep that night.

Frank had risen early and was pottering around the old wattle tree with its cleft trunk when the boy came rushing out to find him. Harry peered between the two diverging arms of the tree and called to Frank. The old man was not as deaf as he often pretended to be, and he looked up at once.

"Hello, lad," he said simply. "They're on their way."

It felt as if something in his brain had snapped. He had to lean against the tree just to keep himself upright, his vision swimming for a moment as if a sheet of electricity had passed across his eyes. After almost a minute, in which Frank leaned against his spade and waited patiently, Harry spoke.

"Sirius?" he croaked. "Sirius is coming?"

"I didn't see your godfather," Frank amended hurriedly. "But I met your friends Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. They promised to pass on your letter. There was rather a hiccough on the way – I seem to be under a sort of hypnosis or something of the like, lad. Mrs Granger says everything's sorted out."

Harry nodded dumbly. _Home…I'm going home…_

A week passed, and then another. There was a new moon passing invisibly across the sky and the heat was making Frank's hand-watered lawns wither and become tipped with brown. Harry sat outside every day, even when he burned in the sun and his nose peeled. And no one came. No message. No Sirius.

"Perhaps something's happened," Harry said, more to himself than to Frank, though the two of them were side by side, weeding the marigolds. "You don't…think it was possible the Death Eaters followed you? They might have attacked the Burrow after you left…!"

Frank, still unsure of what a Death Eater was, said that he thought it was unlikely.

"You're sure they understood where I was? Perhaps there was a mix-up. Perhaps they don't really know at all."

Frank could not think of any way to alleviate these fears, so he just muttered something about thinking positively.

Harry tried. But all the fears he had were really just there to drown out one endless, resonating terror. Hermione and Ron would surely have given Sirius his letter, and Frank seemed sure they had known how to discover Harry's location. But still Sirius had not come. For nearly a year, Harry had managed to deny this one possibility that had grown and expanded over the months, and now it was almost to enormous to keep down. There were no more excuses.

His godfather was not coming for him.

_It's not that he doesn't love you,_ Harry told himself firmly, _but after all, he must have decided you were dead. He's gone on with his life_. Harry briefly imagined Sirius married to a luminous blonde with three children and felt his stomach wriggle. _When he heard you were alive he was probably just very shocked. Of course he still loves you, he just – he's moved on – it's to be expected_, he told himself. _Without you to look after, he's been able to get a real life. A job, a family. Be a real wizard again, and it's better this way. _Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to try and drive the thoughts out of his head, but they continued regardless. _Don't worry, you can live at Hogwarts. You'll be happier there anyway – it's what you wanted, isn't it? To get away from Sirius and be with other wizards and witches your own age?_

The thoughts went round and round in his head. _Sirius has moved on with his life…it's what you wanted, isn't it?_ They were driving him mad. He stabbed at the hard, dry earth with a small digging fork, prying out a particularly deep-rooted weed. _It's not that he doesn't love you…_Harry roared in frustration, twisting the handle of the digging fork. With a crack, it broke and he was left with the useless bit of wood in his hand, his brain red with slow-burning rage.

Frank looked over at him, concerned.

"We have to finish the ladder," Harry declared firmly. "That's the only way out."

Frank nodded and handed him a trowel to replace the fork.

But it was easier said than done. The ladder of iron pots and pans was half-finished, but Frank had begged or borrowed all the spare cast-iron saucers in the whole village, and was having trouble finding more. The townspeople found his new collection very odd, but put it down to senility, which was lucky, because it meant Frank's strange new obsession with cookware did not reach the ears of Wormtail via the village grocer.

It took another week and a half of solid work to finish the ladder, not to mention a good dent out of Frank's savings. Harry was stunned to hear that it was ready, but his delight overrode his nervousness at the thought of actually using the now-complete ladder. By that time September had arrived, the moon was waxing again and Harry had to explain that it would be better if he climbed over the wall once it was on the wane. To prevent any accidents if he got stuck outside during the full moon, he said.

"What? You'll turn into a pumpkin after midnight?" Frank laughed.

"Something like that," Harry replied seriously. He was looking – and, truth-be-told, feeling – undeniably ill. The crushing disappointment of the undelivered rescue had put him off his food and left him acting jumpy and on edge. He wanted to take a risk, and he wanted to do it as soon as possible. Only a firm stand by his better sense – what Sirius had always called his mother's sensibilities – reminded him of what might happen if he was caught out, roaming alone, during the full moon.

And then the men in black cloaks came back.

------------------------------------------------

They were in the hallway when Harry came down the stairs one morning. Four of them, two with their hoods pulled up and white masks covering their faces. They were speaking quickly with their shoulders almost touching, and had no inkling that they were being spied upon by anyone. Wormtail was nowhere in sight.

"Are you certain this is wise?" one of the unmasked men was saying. He had pale silvery hair, cold grey eyes and an austere expression. "Such a large gathering. Is it really safe?"

"You question the Dark Lord's bidding?" one of his masked companions replied sharply, and Harry realised it was a woman. He voice, heavy as rich wine, sounded familiar.

"Not at all, Bellatrix," the grey-eyed man replied smoothly. "I merely wonder if it is necessary for us all to be present. We still have no clue as to the spectacle we are to see tonight."

"The Dark Lord wishes us all to be present, and we obey," the other masked person said in a croaky voice. The grey-eyed man sneered for a moment but did not make any further objections. The conversation grew too low for Harry to hear any more. He crept backwards up the stairs until he was out of sight and then sped back to his room.

Pressing his face to the glass of his window, he saw that more strangers was coming up the driveway – this time, Harry recognised one of them. It was the burly, cruel-faced man with the hoarse voice who had been visiting the month before. Three ragged men and an equally ragged woman accompanied him. Harry pulled the curtains shut and tried to think what to do.

Something was happening. The secrets of the Riddle House were not going to remain secret much longer, not if there were people swarming over it, in plain sight of the house's prisoner. In that case, what was going to be done with Harry? Was he going to be moved to a new location? Away from Frank? But it had taken him so long just to get this far with his plans! They couldn't be ruined now!

Tonight. Whatever was happening, it was happening tonight, during the full moon.

Harry slipped back down the stairs as quietly as he could, but the hall was empty. He stepped lightly through the kitchen, which was likewise empty, but he could hear voices in the front hall. He went through into the dusty old side parlour, opened the door a crack, and peeped through.

Wormtail and at least six black-cloaked figures were in the hallway. Wormtail was opening the door, and the burly, cruel-faced man was standing on the threshold.

"You weren't summoned, Fenrir," someone behind Wormtail said angrily.

The man at the door grinned his ugly grin. "I'm tired of waiting. I've come for my due. Me and my boys will be your guests tonight. Don't worry, we won't get in your way."

Harry pulled the door shut just as the burly man pushed past Wormtail into the hall. He pressed himself against the wall behind the china cabinet as a moment later the door into the parlour opened and the whole group, black-cloaked figures and ragged, bad-smelling folk as well, marched through into the kitchen. Harry, hidden by the cabinet, remained hidden. He noticed Wormtail was not in the group and darted out of his hiding place and through into the front hall.

Wormtail was just shutting the door, looking ashen at his sudden profusion of visitors. Harry went straight up and demanded Wormtail let him outside. "All those people are scaring me," he said, which was true, even if it was not the real reason he needed to leave the house.

Wormtail did not have the heart to even try to protest. "Y-you're to knock when you want to come i-in," was the most authority he could manage. "I-I'm locking the door behind you."

As soon as Wormtail had closed the door behind him, Harry sprinted to Frank's cottage and hammered on the window. He kept at it until Frank appeared on he other side of the glass and threw it open, looking grim and frightened.

"What's going on?" the old man growled. "There's a load of bloody louts marching past my front door! I'm not coming out until they're gone!"

"You have to come out," Harry said, breathless and rubbing his knuckles. They'd been bruised from knocking on the window. "You have to help me with the iron ladder."

"What?"

"I'm leaving," Harry panted. "Now. And you better come with me, because there's going to be hell to pay when they find me gone."

----------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: Sorry this chapter is so long in coming, school has started again and I have a bunch of small children to look after. Also I think I bankrupted my brain writing it. I've rarely liked a chapter less then this one. There are about a million things that I _know_ are just not _logical_, they just don't make _sense_ but it would nearly take a complete rewriting of the past five chapters to fix it…so think of this chapter as a draft…which means you're welcome to act as editors and tell me exactly where it's going so wrong.

And I _know_ it seems like I've put in another pointless dead end with Hermione and Ron basing their rescue of information from Lupin. I make no excuse. I hope it will have some relevance in the finale, because everything is supposed to have some relevance by the time I wrap things up. And look! Things are happening! Things are really happening at last! Oh, joy and buttercakes.

My love to reviewers!

Cheers for today.


	17. Funeral at the Shrieking Shack

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"Sirius?"

He looked up swiftly from his papers, with the manner of someone who had been hoping for a distraction from his work. For a moment there, Sirius had thought it was Lupin rousing him. It took only a moment to recognise the baritone voice as Kingsley's, but the disappointment did not show. He'd imagined such things several times in the past few days.

He sat in the kitchen at Grimmauld place, working at the long wooden table with a cup of coffee within reach and a number of fresh quills. Bills of law, letters of consent, notices of consultation, copies of the will…he hadn't realised that matters of inheritance took so much work. He had waded through the legalities of Lupin's affairs in a kind of numbness. Dumbledore had been right – doing something helped.

Kingsley was standing in the doorway, his hand on the shoulder of a short, plump woman in a worn cloak and a brightly patterned woollen scarf. Her expression was apprehensive, almost frightened, and she was clutching something in her hand – a scrap of paper?

"Sirius, this is Molly Weasley," Kingsley said formally. "Arthur's wife."

Sirius gave a polite nod of acknowledgment, unable to quite remember whether he'd met the woman before. She wasn't officially a member of the Order but she contributed to it in various ways. Molly Weasley granted him a tender smile in return, though her heart didn't quite seem to be in it. She stepped closer until she was standing directly across the table from him.

"Mr Black," she said apprehensively. "This came for you," and she laid the scrap of paper on the table and pushed it across to him. "I've already told Dumbledore everything my children found out," she said in a rush. "He's put Mr Shacklebolt on the case at once," her voice sounded on the verge of giving way, as if she could barely bring herself to make this report.

Glancing curiously at her, Sirius picked up the ragged piece of paper and ran his eyes down it.

He read it three times before he moved. Then he stood up so suddenly the chair legs screeched on the stone floor and Molly Weasley caught her breath in surprise. Sirius's face was bloodless as he hurried around the table and took a hold of her hand.

"Where did you get this? Where is he?"

"My children. A muggle man visited them, saying Harry had sent him," Molly said shrilly. Sirius had a mad sheen to his expression, a dangerous set to his mouth. He was looming over her, more than a head taller, and clutching her hand so hard she could feel the bones moving in her knuckles. "But he was under an enchantment and he went away without telling them where Harry is. They still don't know."

Kingsley appeared beside him, possibly alarmed that Sirius was on the verge of doing something crazy, and said, "I've contacted Arthur and we are both trying to track the man down. I have his name but so far I cannot find him. We're working on it."

Sirius looked from Kingsley to the letter and then to Molly. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth, and then suddenly he had his arms around Molly's shoulders and was hugging her, his face full of her home-knitted scarf, rocking a little the way her children used to rock on her lap when they were very small.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Gingerly, glancing helplessly at Kingsley, she patted his back and replied. "We haven't found him yet."

"Doesn't matter," Sirius said, his voice still muffled by her scarf. "Any news is enough."

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Neville slept the entire journey, only waking as the great scarlet steam engine pulled into the Hogsmeade station and the rocking compartment shuddered to a halt. He'd entered the compartment alone and it was still empty when he awoke and wandered off the train, pushed and nudged from all sides by the mass of students streaming onto the platform.

He rode in a carriage with several jabbering second-years until they reached Hogwarts and crossed the lawn up to the castle, where he glimpsed the back of Hermione's bushy head in the entrance hall. He called after her, but she couldn't hear him over the noise and scramble of the students heading for the feast. Neville was swept along in the general crush and found Hermione and Ron sitting at Gryffindor table. They were both looking at the staff table in silence, as all around them people greeted their friends and the cheery voices rose and fell.

"Hello," Neville said brightly as he took his seat. At least, he'd tried to sound bright. Hermione didn't seem to notice. She glanced at him and replied, "Hello," in a gloom-laden voice. Ron didn't even look in their direction.

Gradually the noise died down as McGonagall entered, leading a line of first-years. The sorting was quick, as there were fewer first-years than there had ever been in Neville's memory. Perhaps it was the attack on the muggle orphanage that had prompted more parents to keep their children at home, or perhaps it was just a general trend of the war.

By the time the sorting finished, Hermione and Ron had still not made any attempt to speak to Neville, although they had whispered something to each other when two new Gryffindors joined the table. Neville was starting to feel that their mood was contagious, as he began to wonder grimly if he had done something to offend them. He noticed that across the table, Fred and George Weasley were also unusually quiet, and Ginny Weasley was fiddling with her fork in a distracted manner, though this was the first sorting she had attended as a spectator. Percy Weasley had not even puffed out his chest to show off the shining Head Boy badge pinned to his robes.

_Did I somehow make myself an enemy of the whole Weasley clan?_ Neville wondered. He followed Hermione's gaze at the staff table and finally realised who she and Ron were looking at – Professor Jones, sitting beside tiny Professor Flitwick. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale and she was staring determinedly at the cloudy ceiling.

As the last new student took their seat, Dumbledore got to his feet, raising his hands for silence. His dark red robes did not seem to suit the man who always gave such an impression of great energy. But there was something grim about Dumbledore's stance as well: a tense line of his body, perhaps – and his usual twinkling smile was absent. Neville noticed curiously that he kept his right arm close to his body, with the sleeve covering his hand.

"Another year, another feast, and I am glad to see each of you has returned safely from the holidays with your minds sufficiently corrupted by sun and silly antics," he said, but the humour that normally filled his voice seemed thin and forced. "Normally, of course, I would ask you to tuck in at once, but tonight, I would request you wait a few moments for me to speak first."

A few people fidgeted impatiently, and the rumbling of bellies was almost audible, but everybody sensed the seriousness in Dumbledore's voice and even the Weasley twins did not dare groan aloud.

Dumbledore raised his chin a little. "This year, I am pleased to say that Professor Hestia Jones will continue in the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. However…" and suddenly a swift chill seemed to clutch at Neville's chest. Complete silence had smothered the Great Hall: no one moved or whispered, "…though I welcome her back, it is not without regret. Professor Lupin, whom all of you who have returned this year should remember fondly, was to have resumed his post as our resident Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher after his absence at the end of last term. But that is not possible under current circumstances. It is with the greatest remorse that I must bring you the news that Professor Lupin is no longer with us."

Finally the silence broke, and the faintest gasps rippled across the tables. Dumbledore raised his voice to speak over them. "Professor Lupin was taken by force from his home three weeks ago and all evidence suggests he is no longer alive. I would entreat you, please, to refrain from asking the staff your much-desired questions about the manner of his death, as none of us know the precise details and do not wish to recount what little we have been told. It is without a doubt that he was taken by the forces that the Ministry fights so hard to keep at bay, and taken not because he was a threat to them, but out of the pure and loathsome desire for revenge. Such a thing is a waste: a waste of time, a waste of hate, a waste of a good man's life."

Here he paused to look out over the sea of pale faces. Some shocked or disbelieving, but many merely curious. Dumbledore lifted his chin a little and continued. "A memorial service for Professor Lupin will be held this weekend in the village of Hogsmeade, and the staff and I have set the first Hogsmeade weekend to correspond with this date so that you may attend, if you so wish. However you choose to remember Professor Lupin, I hope that you do so with fondness. He was proud of you, those who knew him. And remember that he was brave, and enduring, in every fight which he fought, including the last."

No one spoke as Dumbledore bowed his head and waited. A few seconds passed. Up on the staff table, the rest of the Professors sat rigid. McGonagall's face was white and her brows were knotted. Sprout had her eyes closed and her hand was entangled in her flyaway hair. Flitwick had his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. Professor Jones was still staring at the ceiling, and her hands resting on the table in front of her were balled into fists. Snape, however, show no signs of remorse – he was sitting with his arms folded, looking merely bored.

Neville sat, feeling numb. Professor Lupin, who had always been kind to him, who had always been so patient and intuitive…this seemed impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron was shaking his head hesitantly. Around them, people seemed to be swaying, looking at each other, uneasy looks on their faces.

At last, Dumbledore raised his head and said. "Now, the feast may begin."

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"What do you mean, you're not going?" Hermione asked.

Neville was slumped into a large armchair in the Gryffindor common room, staring miserably at a spot on the wallpaper. Ron stood just behind Hermione, trying to use a cleaning spell to get some stains out of the hem of his robes, but he had looked up at the sound of her voice. Around them, students were filing out of the portrait hole, chattering quietly to each other. Down in the entrance hall, Filch would be ticking off names on his list of those with permission to go to Hogsmeade. Everyone had made an effort to look sombre, although as their school robes were black anyway, this wasn't difficult.

Neville plucked at a dangling thread in the arm of his chair. "Professor McGonagall took me aside after the feast on the first day. She says I'm not allowed any Hogsmeade trips. Dumbledore has decided it's too dangerous for me."

"Dangerous?" echoed Ron, sounding awestruck at this new level of incompetence from his teachers. "What on earth is dangerous about it? You'll be among about a thousand other kids! Who's going to have a go at you, a seagull?"

"I don't know," Neville shrugged, pulling the thread out of the chair and rolling it between his fingers. "Death Eaters, I s'pose." He did not sound in the least bit convinced that Death Eaters might be lurking behind the lampposts of Hogsmeade, waiting to ambush him.

"But you have to go!" Hermione said shrilly. "It's Professor Lupin's f-f-funeral!"

Neville shrugged again and flicked the bit of thread onto the carpet. There was a hard lump in his throat that suggested he would probably cry if he tried to speak. He had not been able to believe it when McGonagall had come and told him the news. If it hadn't been such a serious topic (and if it hadn't been McGonagall, who rarely made jokes), he would have laughed, sure she was kidding him.

"You should have told us earlier," Ron said. "Maybe we could have talked to her."

"There must be something we can do! They can't be serious!" Hermione added, still sounding horrified.

"It's alright," Neville plucked at the next thread in the arm of the chair, wondering if he could unravel the whole thing before Hermione and Ron got back that evening. "I'm used to it. Dumbledore's been pulling this sort of stunt since I was four years old," the thread he was pulling snapped and he grimaced. "Making me and Gran move house. Setting us Auror bodyguards. Pulling me out of muggle school to have me home schooled." He tossed the second bit of thread aside and started on a third.

Hermione still seemed unable to believe her ears. Ron was looking mutinous. He glanced over at the portrait hole where the last of the students were just disappearing. Fred and George, their heads bent together in conversation, were about to step through.

"Oi!" Ron whistled, and the twins looked back. "You two! Mind giving us a hand?"

"With what? Your shoelaces?" Fred called, but the two of them turned away from the portrait hole and came over to the three younger children.

"What's the matter?" George asked, taking in the three sour faces.

"Do you know any way to get into Hogsmeade without going past Filch?" Ron asked, folding his arms. Neville glanced up hopefully.

Fred and George looked at each other. Fred cocked his head in query, and George nodded seriously. "Little brother," he said to Ron, "you should really ask these questions more often."

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A small hillock lifted the Shrieking Shack above the rest of the village. Even though it was a sunny summer's day, the dilapidated old building seemed to drain its surroundings of colour. With its collapsing eaves, mouldering grey walls and the weeds gnawing at its foundations, it had a sense of death about it – and yet looked like the last place on earth for a funeral.

Most of the students in Hogsmeade had been shocked to hear that the memorial service was to be held outside the Shrieking Shack. Many of the more superstitious among them had considered not attending, but their friends had convinced them that nothing was going to happen in broad daylight in the middle of a crowd. So now the Shrieking Shack, which had stood lonesome and unoccupied for so many years suddenly had more visitors than it had ever remembered.

It was rather a squash. The boarded-up windows overlooked a sea of black hats and cloaks, spreading out from an open circle of ground in the yard outside the shack. Some of the Hogwarts students had even climbed nearby trees to get a better view. For the older guests, about twenty chairs had been set in the centre of the crowd, circling a square headstonestone set into the ground, but fewer than thirty adults were in attendance, in contrast to the three hundred children who had decided to come. And to Neville's surprise, it looked as if all the school houses were equally represented – even the Slytherins, who had unabashedly mocked Lupin's shabby appearance when he had been a teacher, had turned up to wish him goodbye.

Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Neville, panting slightly as if he had run a long way.

"I made it," he said. "Fred and George's secret tunnel worked. It comes out underneath Honeydukes."

"Thank goodness," Hermione said, pulling him further into the crowd. "Keep your head down, Neville. All the Professors are here, and if they catch you, McGonagall might just explode."

Ron was standing on tiptoes, trying to figure out whether anything had happened yet, but even with his height he was having trouble seeing over the heads of the students. "Come on, let's get a bit closer. No one's going to notice Neville among this lot," he said, beckoning to the other two. The three of them circled around the outside of the crowd and slipped between a group of sixth-years until they could just see the circle of adults at the centre of the mass.

A man was just standing up in front of the Shrieking Shack, and was waiting for the chatter and whispers to die down. He was a tall man, but he looked exhausted and there was a gauntness showing on his face. His dark hair was tied back from his face with a black ribbon.

"That's Harry Godfather, Sirius Black," Hermione whispered to Neville. Her voice was croaky and he saw that she was wiping the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. "Harry said he and Lupin were really close. Oh," she sniffed, leaning towards Ron, "Professor Lupin won't ever see Harry again…" Ron patted her shoulder with an awkward look on his face.

Neville craned his neck to see over the heads of the adults sitting down in the centre of the circle. In the middle was a square stone set into the ground and etched with words that Neville couldn't read from this angle. He looked up as the man, Harry's Godfather, cleared his throat and began to speak.

"I think a lot of you are wondering why we've chosen this location for today's," he seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, "assembly. I don't think I could explain why the Shrieking Shack meant something to Remus, as you probably wouldn't believe me. I know he'd understand the humour of it. Thank you for coming."

He sat down quickly after this short speech, looking faintly lost.

The proceedings were short. Several people spoke about Professor Lupin, though Sirius Black did not stand up again. Professor Dumbledore was the last to rise and say a few words, but they sounded strangely hollow. His speech on the first day of term had been more passionate. He bade Remus farewell and dismissed the congregation.

Hermione, Ron and Neville waited as the black-garbed crowd separated. Some filed past the stone in the centre to drop a flower on the ground beside it, then began to trickle back down to the village. Most of them still looked solemn, though a few had broken the mood and were smiling or laughing to their friends. Many of the adults got to their feet but stayed where they were, turning to each in conversation.

"There's Tonks," said Ron sadly, indicating a young woman still sitting on the chairs. She had a mass of frizzy black hair that surrounded her head and drooped over her eyes like a veil. She was bent over almost double, while Professor Jones rubbed her shoulder and spoke quietly to her. "Mum said she and him were…you know…involved. She's…hey, Hermione, where are you going?"

Hermione was hurrying across the yard towards the milling adults. The two boys followed her, Neville hanging behind Ron in a vain attempt to stay out of sight. A number of the Professors had left with the students, but Dumbledore and Professor Jones had stayed behind.

"Mr Black," Hermione called. Harry's Godfather, who had been standing idly looking down at the carven stone and its little heaps of flowers, glanced up and watched her approach without a hint of interest. He looked dazed, as if he was walking around half-asleep. Hermione stopped a few feet in front of him as if afraid to go closer. "Mr Black," she said breathlessly. "I'm Hermione Granger. I don't know if you remember…"

"Yes, I do. From the hospital wing last year," he nodded. At least his voice didn't sound asleep.

Hermione nodded, looking at the man's chest to avoid his eye. "We were…wanted to know…have you found out anything? About Harry?"

Black turned his head away quickly as if she had feigned a slap at his cheek. He shook his head quickly. "We haven't got enough information," he said bitterly.

"We're sorry," Ron said at once. "It's our fault. Frank Bryce brought us the letter and we shouldn't have let him leave."

Black shrugged. "No apologies. Ron Weasley, isn't it? Your father's helped out a lot with the muggle investigations. I'm very grateful. And I'd like to hear how you two met Harry when he came to Hogwarts. I never got time to speak to him before he was taken…"

His eyes turned towards Neville, who had been silent up until now. A pained look flashed across his face, and Neville thought he saw the man's eyes flick up to his forehead where his fringe concealed a lightning-bolt shaped scar. "Neville Longbottom," he said. "I thought I heard Dumbledore say to Minerva that it was too dangerous for you to come today?"

"Um," Neville could not think of anyway to reply to this. Was Black reprimanding him?

"You'd better be going before he sees you," Black added, and looked back at Ron and Hermione. "I meant what I said about hearing about Harry. I'm staying at the Three Broomsticks for a couple of days to sort out some more things, so if you could get into Hogsmeade tomorrow you'd be welcome to come and see me."

"We'll try to do that," Hermione managed a faint smile. "If you do find anything, you'll owl us, won't you?"

"Of course," Black replied.

The three of them moved off behind a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs who were just heading back to the village. Neville looked back over his shoulder and finally got a clear look at the square stone around which everyone had gathered.

REMUS JOHN LUPIN  
1959 – 1993

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Sirius watched the three children's retreating backs until they disappeared among the rest of the black-clad students. How strange, that Hermione and Ron, whom he had heard were the ones to have befriended Harry during his fateful two weeks at Hogwarts, had now adopted Neville into their group. As if the roles had reversed. If things had been different…Sirius could almost see Harry walking down towards Hogsmeade, laughing with his friends, just another ordinary student. But Neville, he reminded himself, was not ordinary either.

He glanced across at the dwindling group of wizards and witches who had stayed behind. Tonks was standing a little way away, staring at the ground with a corpse-white face and red-rimmed eyes. Hestia was making some attempt to talk to her, but did not look as if she was having much luck. Sirius's brows frowned as he glanced at Hestia. He had barely spoken a dozen words to her since he had found out she had reported their excursions in search for Harry to Dumbledore. He knew he was being stubborn, that as a member of the Order Hestia reported everything to Dumbledore, but he still felt angry that she hadn't at least told him.

He turned away to greet another well-wisher, a small, bird-faced wizard with a pair of pince-nez perched on his nose. Sirius been greeting people all morning, shaking hands and making small conversation, listening to memories of Lupin as if he was nothing more than some book they had all read and were now eager to discuss. It was starting to get dull.

"My name is Myron De Witt, Mr Black," the bird-faced man was saying as he shook hands, though Sirius was already beginning to tune out to his dry voice. "I've been meaning to introduce myself. Remus spoke of you so many times, with so much regret. I was glad to hear you had rejoined the Wizarding World and the two of you had reunited."

"Uh-huh," Sirius nodded automatically. So this man had known Lupin during the years that Sirius had taken Harry into hiding.

"He was a truly selfless man," De Witt continued, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of the large grey waistcoat he was wearing over his robes. "Even when he knew the risks, he was still dedicated to supporting us…" he began to drone on about bravery and modesty but Sirius had already lost the thread of conversation and simply nodded and made agreeable noises every now and again.

"…it was so difficult for him to talk about the accident when he mauled that child. Your Godson, wasn't it?" De Witt peered at Sirius in concern. "How is the boy? Coping well?"

"Yes," Sirius suddenly cottoned on to what the man had said and backtracked hurriedly. "Did you say when he talked about the…er, accident?"

"Indeed, I'm sure you understand the guilt he went through. But part of our research meant we had to know the details of his past struggles with Lycanthropy," De Witt nodded wisely as if he knew exactly what it was like to be a werewolf.

" What type of research did you say you worked in?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"Ah, I apologise, I do forget to explain sometimes. I'm a potions master, Mr Black. I was working with a team of international potions researchers for many years. One of our most difficult projects was a study into a possible Lycanthropy cure, a permanent one."

Sirius forgot his boredom in an instant. "You found a werewolf cure?" he asked, awed.

De Witt sighed and shook his head. "Unfortunately, it was never perfected. But Remus was an endless help. Without even knowing the details, he volunteered himself as a test subject, as well as providing his own blood for sampling. It is so difficult to get werewolves willing to cooperate with Wizards, so we wouldn't even have made it as far as we did without him…"

"Why? Why was the cure never completed?" Sirius interrupted.

"Ah, a cruel tragedy," De Witt said, straightening his pince-nez. "The head of our research team, Horace Slughorn, was murdered by Death Eaters. Very much like poor Remus, now I think of it. They found his house burned to the ground with the Dark Mark set in the sky…" a shiver passed across De Witt's face, "no body to be discovered, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was surely dead. He had refused to cooperate with the Death Eaters – offended the wrong people – and his murder was also a warning to his contacts in the Ministry," De Witt sighed. "After that, the research team just fell apart. We needed Slughorn's charisma, and his brains, though we didn't like to admit it," he sighed again.

Something clicked in Sirius' brain. He had been listening, rapt, to De Witt's story. Now he licked his lips and said curiously, "The cure you were devising. It wouldn't, by any chance, use the herb Moly in great quantities, would it?"

De Witt's eyes widened. "It did, actually. We found it was necessary to keep the patient's mind human. Did Remus mention it to you?" he asked.

"Yes," said Sirius absently. "Yes, he did."

In his head, he could hear those last words Lupin had said as he had gleefully told Sirius that he had made a breakthrough, moments before the Werewolves had broken into his house. _"A heck of a lot of things would make sense if I am right. It's the Moly Essence, and Horace Slughorn_…"

"Excuse me," said Sirius, breaking off De Witt's new sermon on why Moly Essence was necessary for a werewolf cure. "I've just realised I have to go. It was nice meeting you."

And even before De Witt could register that he had been dismissed, Sirius had Disapparated.

From across the yard, Hestia saw him disappear with a crack. After a moment to make sure Tonks was in safe hands, she excused herself and slipped down the path where she vanished as well.

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Hestia went to Sirius' London flat first, and then to Lupin's house, which had a large _For Sale_ sign staked onto the lawn. A quick inspection concluded that Sirius was at neither of these places. Hestia allowed herself a melodramatic sigh and then Apparated to the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place. It was empty, but a fire had already been lit in the oven. She headed up the stairs, listening for the sounds of occupation. Not many of the Order had been here since Lupin had disappeared, because you were apt to meet Sirius roaming the corridors in semi-trancelike state, glowering at anyone who stood in front of him and tried to talk to him. It made for a depressing atmosphere.

Hestia had tried to talked to Sirius several times, but he had avoided her as surely as if she had been diagnosed with the plague. At first she thought he was just brooding, and as she felt like doing the same thing herself, she took no offence. Then, when she had had enough of trying to comfort Tonks on her own, she had gone upstairs to where Sirius had been holed up, looking through Lupin's journals, and demanded that he stop ignoring her. Sirius had slammed the door in her face.

Hestia realised that he was not just ignoring her. He was snubbing her. She could not understand what she had done until she finally thought about when Sirius had actively begun avoid her, which was right after he had had a chat with Dumbledore. What the Headmaster had said, Hestia couldn't be exactly certain of, but now Sirius thought she was a spy for Dumbledore or something like that and it made her feel even more ill and miserable.

So when she saw him leave the funeral in a great hurry she followed him under the pretext of curiosity, but mostly just because she hadn't spoken to him for a week and now seemed to give her as good an excuse as ever.

Sirius was in the hallway upstairs, levitating cardboard boxes out of one of the bedrooms. As each box came out of the room, Sirius would slice it open with his wand, check the contents, then push it aside in favour of the next box. Hestia stared at him for a minute before she asked cautiously, "What are you looking for?"

Sirius looked up in surprise, registered her, and returned to the latest box. "Just following me around now, are you?" he asked in reply. "Or were you doing that anyway?"

Hestia took a moment to answer because she had to swallow a hard lump in her throat. "Yes," she said weakly. "I liked following you around. What is all this?"

Sirius ripped open the next box, scowling venomously into its depths. "It's the stuff we brought from Moony's house," he said finally. "But I can't remember which box has the…here we go," he knelt and peeled back the flap. Hestia stepped forward to see what was inside.

The box was filled with old copies of the _Daily Prophet_. The story on the top one looked like it was dated at least three years ago. _Prewetts 'Died like heroes' _the headline of the top newspaper proclaimed. Sirius picked it up and threw it onto the ground. He took the next paper, leafed through it very briefly, and then cast it down as well.

"Can't I help?" Hestia asked timidly, sitting down across the box. Sirius picked up the next paper.

"I _can_ read," he answered coldly.

"Yes, but you're only looking at the first few pages. You're probably missing stuff," Hestia picked up the next newspaper on the pile. "I repeat, what are we looking for?"

Sirius threw another paper aside and said grudgingly, "Horace Slughorn."

They sifted through the newspapers for a few more minutes, sitting in an awkward silence.

"Here," Sirius cried so suddenly that Hestia jumped. He was holding out the second page of a yellowed newspaper. "_Another blow struck – notable Potions researcher killed by Death Eaters_."

For a moment, the enmity between them was forgotten in the excitement of discovery. Sirius and Hestia leaned over the newspaper article while Sirius scanned it through it. "It's dated in early November last year – three weeks after the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts. This was what Moony was going to tell me, Hestia! Everyone thought Horace Slughorn was more use to the Death Eaters dead, but Moony must have decided he was alive…!"

"Why? What use is Horace Slughorn…?"

"He was devising a cure for lycanthropy," Sirius explained hastily. "That's why Malfoy ordered about a tonne of Moly essence – because Slughorn needed it for the research they must have been forcing him to continue. Look, read this article – Slughorn's house was burned to the ground. It's not a regular thing for Death Eater to torch their victim's houses, is it? It's because they had to cover up the fact that they didn't just take Slughorn, they stole all his research notes and equipment as well."

"But Sirius, _why?_ You think they wanted to cure Harry? So much effort…what's the _point?_"

Sirius faltered. He lowered the newspaper. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe Moony knew," he added bitterly. His face had grown gaunter and thinner over the past weeks and when he frowned his features looked cruel and angry.

There wasn't much Hestia could say to that. She realised how like a pair of young children they must look, sitting on the floor with their good dress robes getting crumpled, surrounded by piles of old newspapers. She stood up and began to levitate the boxes back into the bedroom where they had been stored. "Do you think," she mused, "that maybe they'd need to test a potion that potent before they used it on Harry? They can't risk him being hurt, after all."

Sirius, who had gotten to his feet and was brushing dust off his knees, glanced up at her. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," Hestia said, not meeting his eye because she was afraid she was saying something incredibly stupid, "they couldn't test it on one of Fenrir Greyback's followers, could they? Not if You-Know-Who wants the werewolves as his allies. They'd have to test it on a werewolf who wasn't friendly with others of his kind. And if they wanted to keep things secret it would have to be someone whom they already held a grudge against, so that people wouldn't ask questions when he was kidnapped."

She forced herself to look at Sirius' reaction. He was goggling at her with a disbelieving expression on his face.

"And," Hestia plunged on, dropping the last box in the doorway, "they'd have to keep him alive for at least a month, to make sure that the potion really worked."

"God. No, it can't be possible," Sirius whispered, hunching forwards like a dog bristling at the scent on an intruder. He opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment there was a huge, crunching _BANG_. The vibrations seemed to roll under their feet.

"What the hell was that?" Sirius barked.

"You don't think someone's trying to break into the house?" Hestia squeaked, gripping her wand and scrambling over the remaining boxes. The two of them dashed down the hallway towards the front door. The Black Family Portraits that had not yet been removed began to screech and wail.

"Be careful!" Hestia cried as Sirius grabbed the doorhandle and pulled it open, brandishing his wand before him. He strode out onto the steps and stopped when a strange sight met his eyes. Hestia looked over his shoulder.

"Who _is_ that?" she hissed at him.

-------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: Whoops, I underestimated again. My previous claim that the story was definitely going to be twenty chapters has now been revised to twenty-one. No difference really.

Thanks, reviewers!

Next Chapter: Neville is both terribly brave and extremely foolish.


	18. A Race to Beat the Dawn

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Neville was walking down a long grey path, with darkness all around. He moved in a slow, stately stride, as if he was floating across a frictionless surface. A deep thumping rung out, which might have been a heartbeat. Slow, steady darkness, and the pumping heartbeat…

And then things began to clarify. He could hear the _crunch, crunch_ of gravel underfoot, and realised that the track was a normal garden path winding through a moonlit field. Ahead, a metal archway reared up and he passed underneath it. A sign went by, but he noticed it too late and it was gone before he could read it.

The gravel path was split into straight lines in each direction, and grey obelisks lurked in the faint mist that had formed in the air. A stone angel, its face worn featureless, watched him from atop its marble pillar, and rows of headstones vanished away into the darkness. This was a graveyard, and it was familiar. He had seen that stone angel, the particular alignment of those obelisks. He'd been here before.

Two black-clad shapes slid out from behind the tombstones. They both knelt before him, white masks obscuring their faces and distorting their voices.

"He did not get far, my lord," one said in a distant, barely intelligible voice. "He escaped over the wall but we caught him before he reached the village."

"Thank you," Neville said, his voice cold and high and seeming to echo. "Where is he now?"

"A little way along, my lord. By your father's grave," the second kneeling figure replied.

"You are both dismissed. I will kill him alone," Neville said.

The two figures nodded, stood and melted away into the mist. Neville walked onwards, feeling cold draught flow past his cheeks and a rich, wonderful feeling rising in his chest. There was anger mixed in too, but most of the feeling was a perverted lust for death, and the energy gained from destroying the life of another.

The headstones seemed to part before him, all except for one, at the end of the row. A space was set around it, as if a bad smell had driven away the other corpses buried here. At the foot of the tombstone, a skinny figure lay in a tangled mess, bound, gagged and barefooted.

At the sound of the footsteps, Harry turned his head and opened his eyes.

"Welcome back," Neville said, bending down on one knee. A thin-fingered white hand emerged from his robes, grasped a handful of the boy's hair and pulled his head back to look at his face. Harry's breath came in heaving gasps through his nose, but his eyes were full of fury. "Come now, Harry. Where did you think you would go?"

With the gag bound tight across his mouth, Harry could not answer. But his body jerked and he tore his hair out of the grip of those long, spidery hands.

The cold high voice coming from Neville's mouth gave a soft laugh. "If you had only stayed put, I might have spared you. But it is clear you will never be obedient, and now you are useless to me. I'm going to kill you, Harry. Right here, this night. And it will not be quick – we have all night, Harry, just the two of us."

From within the robes, one of the white hands drew out a long wand and raised it towards the boy curled on the ground. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face towards the earth of the grave. There was a moment where the sound of the heartbeat rang out again, going on forever. Then pain erupted everywhere, in every fibre of Neville's body, flowing out from his forehead like liquid, red-hot rock, and coursing through his limbs…he could hear Harry screaming and his voice joined in so that the chorus pulsed with the pain, and he seemed to be falling backwards so fast he knew that when he hit the ground he would die and that would end it, and he was glad, to make everything stop…

"Neville!" someone was screaming. Hands were trying to smother him, strangle him, and he wriggled and fought against them. A high, terrified voice wailed, "Stop it! Neville, stop!"

"Get something…"

"My wand, give it to me…hurry…_Neville!_"

Stabbing cold water sloshed over his face and into his open mouth. There was a gargling sound as his throat hastily tried to close his lungs and keep screaming at the same time. His lungs won out. The scream was cut off and he opened his eyes, coughing.

Hermione's face was looking down at him. She had her wand out and was spraying him with what seemed to be several buckets of icy water. Ron was leaning over him, pinning his arms to his sides. They both looked pale and shocked. Cautiously, as if afraid he was going to get hit, Ron released Neville's arms and helped him to sit up.

They were in the common room, and the fire had burned down to embers. There were no other Gryffindors in sight, as they had all gone to bed. Several textbooks and sheets of parchment were spread across the table nearby. Neville remembered only that the three of them had stayed up late to finish their potions essay, which they hadn't started earlier in the day because they had been at the funeral. He rubbed his head, where the scar above his eyes was still throbbing. He must have fallen asleep…and the dream…

"Neville?" Hermione squeaked. "You…you're not hurt, are you? You were flopping everywhere…you tried to punch Ron…"

"Whas' goin' on?" A sleepy voice rung across the room. Fred and George had appeared at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, both of them yawning in unison. "Who was shouting?"

"It's nothing," said Ron hurriedly, trying to smile in a reassuring manner. "Neville fell off his chair and stubbed his toe."

"Well, next time don't be such a blimmin' pansy. You woke half the dormitories up," George said grumpily, scratching his neck beneath his yellow striped pyjamas. Ron made an apologetic face and the twins, after scanning to room to make sure they couldn't catch Ron out in some way, retreated back up the stairs. Ron turned back to Neville, who had been sitting in a daze.

"Was it another dream?" The red-haired boy asked eagerly. "What did you see?"

Neville's head throbbed harder as he tried to focus his scattered thoughts. "Yeah, it was. Something…someone…ah!" his eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking Hermione over. "Harry!"

"What?" Hermione asked as Ron echoed. "_Harry?_"

"He's going to be killed!" Neville cried, pushing past Hermione towards the portrait hole. He threw it open and tumbled out into the dark corridor beyond. Hermione and Ron chased after him, both of them looking wildly at each other.

"What did you see?" Hermione asked in a terrified voice. "How did you know he was going be killed?"

"I saw Him. I _was_ Him! You-Know-Who…" Neville plunged down a flight of stairs so fast he nearly tripped and had to grab the handrail to keep himself from falling the rest of the way. "He said he was going to kill Harry…he's going to kill him slowly…he's in the graveyard…"

"That's not right!" Ron interrupted, sounding angry and disbelieving. "You-Know-Who wouldn't _ever_ kill Harry. We know he wouldn't. He wants him alive."

"That's right!" Hermione nodded feverishly. "They're connected. Kill Harry and he kills a part of himself." They were heading down a long corridor with windows along one side. Neville stopped outside a stone gargoyle.

"Look, I don't know," he said, glancing back at Ron and Hermione. "All I know is what I saw. He's going to kill Harry before the night is over, but I know where he is. It's a graveyard. I've been there before."

Hermione and Ron looked at each other as Neville recited the new password to Dumbledore's office and the gargoyle leaped aside. They followed him up the revolving flight of steps beyond until they reached the great oak door at the top. Neville seized the knocker.

"Professor! I've had a dream, Professor! It's urgent!"

Hermione and Ron, beginning to shiver from the cold, stood silently behind him. Neville kept knocking until suddenly the door was pulled out of his grasp as it swung inwards. Dumbledore was standing there, wearing a long purple and gold dressing gown embroidered with tiny hippogriffs around the hem.

"Neville," he said, his white eyebrows contracting. "Come in."

Neville did not waste a moment. Before he had even stepped over the threshold he was explaining the events of his dream to Dumbledore, who nodded seriously like a kindly grandfather listening to a child's story of school bullies. As he spoke, his voice growing faster and higher, Neville took a hold of Dumbledore's sleeve, clinging to it fearfully. It was his left sleeve, because the Headmaster was holding his right hand somewhat awkwardly at his side.

Hermione and Ron followed Neville into Dumbledore's office. Having never visited it before, Hermione looked around in awe, open-mouthed. Ron was watching Dumbledore, waiting to hear the Headmaster's interpretation of the dream. He could not believe that Harry was in such danger. It just didn't make sense, after all this time, for You-Know-Who to simply kill him.

"Professor, I _knew _the graveyard," Neville said in a frightened whisper. "I've been there before. When I was four years old…right after He killed my mum and dad. They took me to that graveyard and they did some kind of ritual to bring him back. I know where it is, I can lead you there," if Neville thought there was something strange about being able to remember directions to a place he had not visited since he was four, he did not say so.

When Neville's babbling subsided at last, Dumbledore was silent for a moment, his expression grimly calculating. Then he strode over to the fireplace, hurled a pinch of powder from a box on the mantelpiece onto the flames and called, "Minerva! At once, please!"

Ron and Hermione huddled together nervously, watched as the seconds ticked by. After about a minute, a dark shape appeared in the flames, spinning and growing larger. Professor McGonagall climbed out of the flames, brushing soot off her tartan dressing gown.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said quietly. "Is Severus still staying Hogsmeade? I need you to fetch him here at once."

McGonagall's sharp eyes swept the room and she pursed her lips as she took in Neville clinging to Dumbledore's sleeve and Ron and Hermione standing behind his desk. Then she shook her head. "No, Albus. He's already gone."

"Gone?" Dumbledore frowned. "Where did he go?"

McGonagall looked a little confused. "Why, wherever you told him to go. He said he was running an errand for you before he left."

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. He turned away from McGonagall and paced across the room with Neville still clutching his sleeve. "I gave Severus no orders," he said heavily. "And he did not tell me he was leaving. Perhaps there _is_ something wrong…"

"Of course there is!" Neville said, sounding surprised. "He's going to kill Harry! You have to go and help him!"

"We will, Neville," Dumbledore said soothingly. He glanced at Hermione and Ron. "Please make sure Neville gets back to Gryffindor tower. Do not let him leave his dormitory."

"You don't think Harry's in danger?" Ron asked nervously. "You think he's alright?"

"That is what I am trying to find out," Dumbledore replied. "For now, just do as I say. Do _not_ let Neville leave Gryffindor tower."

"But he's being _hurt!_" Neville wailed. "He's _torturing_ him! We don't have time!"

"Neville, come back with us," Hermione said plaintively. "It's alright. Dumbledore will sort things out."

"Don't worry," Ron took a hold of the other boy's arm. "He's got everything under control."

Neville did not resist when Ron steered him back towards the door, but he looked back over his shoulder at Dumbledore with the expression of one betrayed.

When they were back in the hall, Neville shrugged Ron off and stood looking at the entrance to Dumbledore's office, as if he wished for nothing more than to go running back up to shake some sense into the old man.

"We've got to do as he says, Neville," Ron said, folding his arms. "He knows what he's doing."

"How can he not believe me?" Neville asked faintly.

"He does believe you, but he's sorting things out himself…"

Neville wasn't listening. "He's not going to do anything. He's going to let Harry die. I have to do something."

"Neville, there's something wrong with your dream," Hermione said anxiously. "We _know_ Harry can't be…what you said…because look," she pointed at the tall windows along the hall. Bright silver light was pouring inside, as outside, nestled in the clouds, glowed a perfectly round full moon.

"What do you mean?" Neville asked. "What's the moon got to do with anything?"

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other. "We'll explain when we get back to the common room," Ron grunted.

"No," Neville took a step away from them. "I'm going down to the entrance hall. If Dumbledore doesn't believe me, I'm going to Hogsmeade right now to find Harry's Godfather. He'll help me."

"Are you _mad?_" Hermione gaped at him. "You can't leave the castle!"

"I'm not going to let him to die!" Neville growled.

"Neville, you have to trust us. Dumbledore will fix things. There's nothing you can _do!_" Ron said angrily.

"There's never anything I can do!" Neville shouted. "I'm never any use except to sit here and act as Dumbledore's personal radio with V-voldemort!" both of the other children winced at the sound of his name. "I've never been brave or clever or anything because everyone else always has things under control. Well, I'm _not going to let Harry die!_" he turned on his heels. "I'm going to go and help him."

Hermione grabbed his arm as he made to walk away. Neville plunged his hand into his robes, drew out his wand and cried an incantation. There was a crack and Hermione toppled to the ground.

Ron, who had barely had time to draw his own wand, dashed to her side. She seemed to have been completely paralysed – only her eyes were moving, and they were darting frantically from side to side. Ron could almost hear Hermione's unspoken words, _Hurry up and unfreeze me, Ron!_

"I can't remember the counter-curse!" Ron said furiously. Hermione's eyes flicked upwards. Ron glanced up and realised Neville was gone. He swore very badly. "Stay here," he said rather pointlessly to Hermione. "I'll go and find him."

He pushed himself up and sprinted down the corridor, trying to think what was the fastest route to the entrance hall.

---------------------------------------------

But Neville wasn't going to the entrance hall. He scrambled around corners, knowing Ron would soon be in hot pursuit, and hurried through a door pretending to be a bit of stone wall. He emerged into a third-floor corridor. And there, straight ahead, nothing more than a black shape in the dimly-lit hallway, was the statue of the one-eyed witch that Fred and George had shown him just that morning when Ron had asked them how to get into Hogsmeade in secret.

He ran along the dirt tunnel as fast as he could manage, but it still seemed to take an eternity before the tunnel began to rise again. He fell over several times; with the result that his hands and knees were filthy by the time he got to the trapdoor at the end. All he could think about was the white-spider hands and the graveyard where Harry was going to die if he didn't get there first.

He climbed up into Honeydukes shop. Lit by the moonlight coming through the window, the sweets and boxes had been drained of all colours, turning them to painted streaks of black and white. The empty silence seemed to cling to him like invisible cobwebs, making him shudder as he passed. He reached the front door and went to open it.

Except that it wouldn't open. Neville shook the handle furiously. It was locked. In his impatience he had to resist punching his fist through the glass window. He cleared his mind until he could remember the spell to unlock doors that Hermione had taught him the year before. He muttered it and the door clicked and swung open.

His throat was starting to hurt from the cold air as he jogged down the main street of Hogsmeade, which was as silent and empty as Honeydukes had been. A few warm yellow lights glowed in the houses down side streets, but the shops facing the main street were dark and empty. It felt as if everything around him was dead. Neville was starting to feel panicky. He quickened his pace, even when a stich began to bite into his ribcage.

Ahead, he finally saw the low lights of the Three Broomsticks. Sirius Black was staying there. He would help Neville reach Harry. _Help Harry…find Harry…_that was all that mattered…that was…

Neville stopped. He suddenly realised how very cold he was, and that he had brought neither cloak nor shoes. His socks were filthy and a hole had opened up in the heel of one. And his forehead was still dimly throbbing.

Find Harry…help Harry… 

_Why?_ Neville thought. _What am I doing?_ He suddenly realised how stupid it was to be running around at night with no shoes on, looking for a place whose location he wasn't even sure of. And he really didn't have any clue where the graveyard was. It could be twenty miles away, or two hundred.

He was beginning to shudder now. The sound of Harry screaming was echoing in the back of his head but his power of reason had returned to him and was doing its best to make itself heard. He had been abysmally foolish to leave the castle, alone, at night, without any warm clothing. Why hadn't he listened to Dumbledore? What on earth had possessed him?

He could see the entrance to the three broomsticks not far ahead. The door swung open as a late-night customer stepped outside for some fresh air and warm light seeped into the surroundings. Neville, thinking of a roaring fire, a mug full of butterbeer and a very humiliating return to Hogwarts once Madame Rosemerta had called Dumbledore to say he was safe, stumbled on towards the inviting light. He reached the door of the Three Broomsticks and pushed it open, wondering whether the Headmaster might not consider locking him in his bedroom at night after this night.

And then a firm hand came down on his shoulder and he felt a wand-tip in the small of his back. He turned his head and looked up into the face of the customer who had stepped outside a moment before. He was a blonde man with a long face and cold grey eyes, and he was smiling a little. Neville did not register the resemblance to Draco Malfoy, but if he had, he could have guessed that the man was Draco's his father.

"Mr Longbottom," the man said in a smooth, cultured voice. "We were expecting to catch you at the gates of the school. Lucky I stayed behind for a drink or we might not have found you at all. How did you slip past us?"

Panic exploded in Neville's chest and he tried to struggle and break away from the man. His wand was still in his hand but all the spells that might have helped him had fled his mind. The man held on more tightly. Neville saw a flash of light and felt his body go numb and limp. The grey-eyed man caught him under the arms as he fell and lowered him to the ground.

"Never trust your dreams, Neville," the silky voice said somewhere near his ear as he felt his wand lifted from his unprotesting fingers. "Especially when they aren't _your_ dreams at all."

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The basement of the Riddle House suddenly seemed a lot smaller.

Greyback had bought a number of friends. Lupin couldn't pick their faces. It wasn't a lack of light – there was a reasonable amount of sunshine creeping in through the high window – he simply couldn't get his eyes to focus. Even raising his head took enormous effort, so he let it sort of lean sideways until he could make out Greyback's face on an angle.

The older werewolf seemed to have aged since Lupin had last seen him, barely a month ago. His hair was a little lighter at the temples and his torso a little thinner. But his cheeks were as rosy as a schoolboy's, and he was grinning.

Lupin let his head droop again. He didn't have the energy for this any more. Let Greyback kill him. He wouldn't get any gratification out of it.

The weeks in this grim little basement, chained in this miserable cellar, had blurred until they were unrecognisable. His wrists and ankles had chaffed until they bled, every joint aching from lack of movement. But he'd still been aware of where he was. Every day, Pettigrew had brought him food and let him out long enough to take a piss in the bucket in the corner.

And Pettigrew talked. He talked like he hadn't met another soul in weeks. The first time Lupin saw Pettigrew, he was only restrained from throttling the man by the chains. Soon he realised that his old school friend could be his only chance to learn about his predicament, so he let him talk. At first it was all, "forgive me, Remus," and, "There's nothing I can do, Remus," but Lupin soon prompted him into more useful topics, such as what Pettigrew was doing living in this run-down manor in the first place.

Pettigrew avoided _that_ subject for several days, but Lupin knew Pettigrew. Eventually, he slipped up, and Harry's name popped out.

Knowing Harry could be only a wall away was agony for Lupin. If he could just get a message out to Sirius! He had learned enough to know the name of the nearest village. He could guess a description of the house. But it was all useless information, locked in this cellar, waiting for someone to come and finish him off…

And now Greyback had come. It was fitting – tonight, Pettigrew had said in an idolatrous whisper, was the full moon. And what his Master was doing…Lupin could barely believe what Pettigrew was suggesting…

Lupin heard Greyback say something derogatory about his masculinity but he couldn't be bothered listening to the man's insults today. He felt grimy claws on his wrists and ankles as the other two werewolves fumbled to unlock his chains.

"Get him on his feet," Greyback grunted, perhaps a little put out that his verbal taunts hadn't had any effect. Lupin was lifted upright, but as soon as the other two werewolves loosened their grip his weakened legs collapsed and he crumpled. He lay in a heap at Geyback's feet, his head throbbing. He could hear the gravely laughter above his head and he pushed himself up until he could at least see his antagonists.

And that was when he saw Maud. She was standing behind Greyback, huddled against his elbow. She was still wearing the dress that Hestia and Sirius had bought her from Diagon Alley, though it was now torn in two places and marked with unidentifiable stains. He matted hair was not tied back, but straggling loose over her shoulders.

His breath caught in his throat. _One chance,_ Lupin thought. _I've been given one chance…_

"Maud," he croaked. "Maud."

Greyback's laughter faded, and he grinned down at the waif clinging to his sleeve. "Did you hear that? He recognises you."

A horrified look came over Maud's plain face and she drew back, staring wildly between Greyback and Lupin. But Greyback encircled her with one arm and pulled her forward again. "Don't be shy," he smirked. "Go and talk to the scum. I'm sure he wants to thank you."

"Uh," Maud made a wordless noise of protest, but Greyback was pushing her toward Lupin. Glancing at him with wide eyes, she shuffled forward and stopped just out of Lupin's reach. Unable to stand up, he extended one arm plaintively towards her.

"Maud, please…"

"He wants to talk to you," Greyback leered at Maud, who was looking terrified now. "Don't disappoint him," he bellowed with laughter. The other two werewolves joined in.

Maud scowled at Lupin as if _he_ had forced her into this uncomfortable position. She shuffled forward again and leaned down towards him, growling, "Don't you…"

Lupin grabbed her collar and dragged her towards him until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Maud squealed and turned her face away, but she seemed too frightened to struggle. The other two werewolves made to pull them apart, but paused when they saw that Greyback was still laughing. Lupin blocked out the hoarse chuckles.

Knowing he had mere moments, he hissed into Maud's ear. "Go to Sirius in London and tell him Harry is in Little Hangleton. He has to come before dawn. Go now. Please."

He released the collar of Maud's dress and she staggered upright, squeezing her eyes shut as if bracing herself for a blow. When nothing came, she opened her eyes to see Lupin slumped against the wall, his face looking drained of blood. The whole thing had taken about twenty seconds, and Greyback didn't seem worried. _Good_, Lupin thought.

"What'd he say?" Greyback asked, still sounding amused.

Maud shuddered and her expression became derisive. Lupin's heart sunk and he closed his eyes. Once again he had misjudged her…she would tell Greyback…

"He said-" Maud's voice cracked for a moment, then she continued, "He was begging for his life, the coward." Lupin opened his eyes and saw Maud looking down at him pityingly. "You're pathetic," she said convincingly, and spat on his robes. Lupin flinched, but it was an automatic movement.

"Please, Maud," he croaked. "Please." _Please don't let Greyback become suspicious…_

Maud turned away and reattached herself to Greyback's elbow. The other two werewolves grabbed Lupin under the arms and pulled him roughly to his feet again, pinning him to the stone wall.

Greyback gave a smug smile. "You should have known not to turn on us, Remus," he said, pulling out his wand.

Maud squeaked, "Wait!" and when Greyback looked at her, she wailed, "I don't want to see this!"

"Maud, my girl," Greyback put one huge hand on her shoulder. "That's why I brought you here. To see what it is we do with traitors."

Maud screwed up her face and began to cry. "I don't want to see! Fenrir, I want to go upstairs!"

Greyback released her shoulder. "Go on, then," he said, and Lupin, who was feeling so ill he thought he would pass out soon, was surprised to hear an almost fatherly tone in Greyback's voice. "It's your loss, girl."

She wriggled away from him and started up the stairs out of the basement. Looking back over her shoulder, her eyes met Lupin's for the briefest moment, but her expression was unreadable.

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Wormtail had been lurking in the corners of the front parlour. The rest of the Death Eaters were in other parts of the house, and Wormtail was glad of it. He hated all of them, arrogant, vain snakes that they were. They were cruel and they always talked to him as if he wasn't clever enough to understand what he was saying. He wished for the umpteenth time that his Master would come. They wouldn't be so demeaning _then_. They'd all get into line and speak in respectful tones as if they'd never acted any differently.

Fenrir Greyback was coming through the parlour now, accompanied by two of his werewolf cronies. Wormtail shuddered. Of all the other Death Eaters, Greyback was the most terrifying. Wormtail could only hope Greyback hadn't done any damage to Remus Lupin. His Master would be furious if Lupin died before tonight. Full moon tonight…he'd have to convince Greyback to leave soon…

He steeled himself and moved to intercept Greyback, who was grinning his cruel grin to himself. "You were told not to h-hurt him," Wormtail said, as bravely as he could manage. "Y-you can h-have him tomorrow, but not before."

Greyback squared his shoulders. His expression was pleased, like a bully who had pulled the wings off a fly and was now watching it stagger across his school desk. "Don't worry, rat," he scoffed at Wormtail. "He'll live. Long enough for you to see your results, anyway. Now, where's my girl gone to?"

It took a moment for Wormtail to figure out what he was talking about. The other werewolf, the ragged, misshapen girl who had come upstairs early. "She's gone. I let her o-out of the e-estate like you said," he muttered.

Greyback frowned. The frown frightened Wormtail even more. "What d'you mean, you let her out?"

"She s-said she was going to fetch y-you your brooms from the village," Wormtail said sulkily.

A muscle was twitching in Greyback's neck. He was neither frowning nor grinning now, he was simply blank and seething.

"She's gone…?" one of the other werewolves gaped.

"No," Greyback hissed. "She wouldn't…"

Wormtail realised he had messed up again. His eyes flickered towards the open door of the parlour, then he made a break for it and dashed towards the exit. Greyback grabbed his robes and hauled him back, shaking him like a dog with a toy. "You imbecile!" Greyback roared as Wormtail struggled, gasping for breath. The werewolf lowered his voice. "Don't you tell _anyone_ that she's gone, you understand? _We_ will go and fetch her ourselves. _You understand?_"

Wormtail nodded. The werewolf released his robes and the short, balding man dropped to the ground. Greyback beckoned to his two companions and they strode past into the front hall.

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Murray Dunham was grinning to himself as he drove down the small sealed road, his truck growling as its tyres dug into the tar-seal. He had been at the Little Hangleton postshop, picking up a letter, and the letter had contained very good news about the sale of his farm. Murray Dunham couldn't wait to get home to tell his wife, who had not had any good news come up since she and Murray had been married. Murray thought of the things she would say when she read the letter and his grin grew even wider. He tapped the ash of his cigarette out the window and took another puff.

So when he saw the ragged girl standing by the road with her thumb stuck out, he thought, _who am I to drive past some poor wretch? She's just a little scrap of a thing!_ Feeling even better that he was doing a good deed for someone, Murray slowed down and came to a halt beside the girl. She was just a kid by the looks of her, wearing a filthy dress and with hair the colour of mud. Definitely not a local, Murray decided.

The girl opened the door. "I need to get to London before moonrise," she snapped as she climbed up into the passenger's seat.

"Well, I can't take you more'n five miles in that direction," Murray shrugged, the cigarette wobbling on the edge of his lip as the girl closed the door. "I'm just heading home now. I'll drop you at the crossroads, tell you what. You should be able get another ride from there, but I doubt you'll get to London before tomorrow afternoon all the same, even if you find someone to drive you through the night."

The girl gave him a sneering look. Murray decided he didn't feel so sorry for her after all. He turned to put the truck back in gear and felt something sharp against his neck. He turned his head quickly to find a long, shining kitchen knife at his throat, the tip jabbing straight into his jugular vein and the girl holding it with a very, very serious expression on her face. The cigarette dangled freely for a moment and then dropped onto to his lap.

Take me to London," she said coolly, "or I'll stab your friggin' eyes out."

It's five hours drive!" Murray squawked. He'd never squawked before in his life. Squawking was something his wife did. His hands were clutching the wheel so hard his knuckles were practically bursting through the skin.

"Then you better drive fast," the girl hissed.

--------------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: HOMG I love Maud. I still want to kill her, yes, but she's so much fun to write. Yeah.

Does anyone have questions about why Neville was so darn silly? I hope it's clear that he was genuinely convinced Harry was gonna die if no one did anything and also, he was under a very mild mind-control curse from Voldemort through the dream.

I also forgot to mention in last chapter's author's notes about Moly. The herb Moly is not something I made up, it was a mythical herb used in Homer's _The Odyssey. _Homer says that Athena gave Odysseus the herb so that a) Odysseus would be protected from Circe's magic and b) the herb would return the men Circe had transformed into pigs to their human form and restore their minds. So I think it's perfect as something that would help cure a werewolf, since it both turns you human and helps you remember you're human. Just my two cents. :D

Long reviews, please! I love them as much as I love you!


	19. An Unconventional Knock on the Door

A/N: Oh f(censored) it. I underestimated again. Those of you wanted more chapters may rejoice – we still have at least three to go. Obviously some subconscious part of my brain doesn't want me to finish this story and keeps drawing it out just to spite me. Damn you, subconscious mind!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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It seemed strange that, after all these weeks, Harry had never actually been in Frank's cottage before. It had just been caution – Harry had done everything he could to keep Wormtail from realising how much he talked to Frank. So the old gardener had always brought him cups of tea outside under the wattle tree, but never invited him into the cottage after Harry had refused the first time.

It seemed even smaller inside than it looked from without, sparsely furnished with a rusting electric stove, a sink, table and chairs. A huge wireless radio squatted on a chest of drawers in the corner beneath one of the small windows with their thick, wobbly glass. There were spider webs clinging to the ceiling and a single bulb hanging down like the root of some tree upstairs. The walls were covered in shelves with all manner of tins, boxes, bags and cases. Seeds, dried foodstuffs, herbs, books, yellowed photographs, and a strong smell of spices from the tins above the stove. A coal range sat next to the stove, with a pair of socks drying on a wire above it.

Harry had to step over the iron ladder as he came into the room, with Frank shutting the door behind him. The ladder stretched from the far corner of the room, right under the table, and came to rest against the door of the cupboard under the sink. A sheet was wrapped around most of its length, so that it looked like a huge white caterpillar lying on Frank's floor.

"Bloody thing trips me up every time I walk through," Frank grumbled as he bent and took a hold of the sheet, his back creaking. He grunted and dragged on the covering. Harry took a hold of another corner and helped to reel the cloth in. It made a _shush_ing noise as it slipped off and Frank rolled it up in his arms.

Harry gawked at the ladder that Frank had built. It was exactly to his specifications. Each cast-iron pot, their sizes varying along with the lengths of their handles, was welded together, rims to bottoms, so that the handles formed alternating rungs on either side. Solder had squidged out from the joins at some places, running in silver drips down the sides of the pots.

"Right," said Frank, sounded very matter-of-fact. He went to push the chairs away so they could get the ladder out from under the table. "Let's get out of here."

There was one problem. The ladder was too heavy to lift.

Harry knew he should have predicated this. Each pot weigh at least three kilograms, so twenty-five of them was as heavy as a large man. Frank was fit and healthy for such an elderly man, but he was still old, and he got pains in all his joints. Harry had been fit last time he had flown a broomstick, but that was a year ago now. Underfed, unexercised and having not yet started his teenage growth-spurt, he was no stronger than Frank.

After twenty minutes they had gotten the end of the ladder out the door, and already both were exhausted.

"This isn't going to work," Harry panted, leaning on the doorframe. He did not know how long they had before someone came out to check on him, but he suspected it would be less than an hour. They had to get over the wall before then.

"Wheelbarrow," said Frank, massaging his wrists.

"The thing's three metres long! How's it gonna fit in a wheelbarrow?" Harry shot back irritably.

"I've got a spare," Frank answered calmly. "Come on, lad."

It took another quarter of an hour to get the ladder as far as the wall. They managed to balance it between two wheelbarrows, with Harry walking backwards holding the front one. Plus another ten minutes of levering and pushing, and trying not to touch the strength-draining stones, before the iron ladder finally settled against the wall with a _clang_. The top of it cleared the wall by about a foot.

Looking up at it, Harry nearly whooped with pride. This was it. They were free. He cautiously reached out and touched the nearest rung of the ladder. A tingling ran up his fingers, but the awful weakness that the stones of the wall produced did not come. Grinning back at Frank, he put his feet on the bottom of the ladder and began to climb.

At the top, he leaned as far over as he dared. The wall was a foot thick, so he would have to jump out a way in order to clear it without touching it. And it was a two and a half metre drop on the other side. Harry swallowed, looking at the thick grass eight feet below him. If he broke his leg before he'd even got out of sight of the house, escaping was going to be very difficult.

He twisted around to lot back at Frank, standing with his hands on his hips at the bottom of the ladder. He flashed Frank a thumbs-up, then put one foot on the top rung of the ladder and straightened his back with his arms spread as if in preparation for flight. The wind rushed across the wall but he kept his balance, tensed the muscles of his legs, and jumped.

He hit the ground before he even knew he was falling and let his legs collapse under him to cushion his fall. For a moment he lay there on the grass, in the late-afternoon shadow of the wall, knowing that he had not been this far from the Riddle house for twelve months and that it felt _wonderful_, and the sky _looked_ wonderful, and he was _free_. It made him want to just go to sleep with the safe, joyous feeling and never have to think about being a prisoner again.

Except that soon someone was going to notice he was missing. Harry sighed, rolled onto his front and got to his feet, resisting the temptation to steady himself on the wall. It was possible the enchantment was not effective on this side, but there was no need to take chances. One ankle had twisted and jarred as he landed but the pain was already fading to nothing, so he assumed he hadn't done himself any damage.

He craned his neck back, but the top of the ladder was only just visible. "Frank!" he called. "Hurry up!"

A minute later, Frank's head appeared over the top of the wall. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched and he shivered as he looked down at Harry. "You know, lad," he called down, "I think I might just stay here, aye?"

"You can't!" Harry replied. The wind rushed past again, nearly drowning out his words. Frank clung to the top of the ladder and turned his face away from it. "Frank!" Harry shouted over the wind, "If you stay here, the Death Eaters will kill you as soon as they find out I'm gone!"

Frank gave a pained look as if Harry was asking him to cut off his own thumb. Finally he answered. "Alright. I'm coming." He climbed to the top of the ladder, but being slightly taller than Harry, he had further to jump to clear the wall. He was also too frightened to let go with his hands before he jumped.

Harry raised his arms. "Aim for me," he called. "I'll catch you as best I can."

Frank raised his grizzled eyebrows. "The hell you will," he grumbled, and then he jumped.

Harry tried to grab him as he plunged to the ground, but the old man had landed further away and crumpled into the grass. He lay still, his legs folded at an odd angle. Harry sucked in his breath and dashed to help the elderly gardener. He imagined Frank smashed on the ground with his old bones poking through his skin and blood trickling down his face and thought, _Oh, God, I've killed him!_ As he knelt to touch Frank's shoulder, the old man shifted and raised his head.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked frantically, sounding close to tears.

"Fine," Frank wheezed, as Harry helped him slowly to his feet. "Ouch," he hissed and put his hand on his back. "That," he said, picking a bit of grass off his knee, "is something best left to younger folk. Now, are we leaving, or are we leaving?"

Harry looked wobbly with relief. He grabbed Frank's hand and pulled him away through the long grass towards the forest. Frank loped behind him, glancing back uneasily to get a last glimpse at the towering wall of the Riddle estate, with the roof of the lifeless house peering over the edge. That garden had been his home for more than fifty years. Leaving it was surreal, as ill favoured as sticking a fork into a toaster. Would he be able to return to his garden and his little cottage once all this was over? Maybe not until the mysterious owner of the house had been arrested and locked away as he deserved, but then, perhaps, Frank would be allowed to go back to his roses and his lawns and never have to think about conspiracies and kidnapping again. Or maybe this was the last time he would ever see the Riddle house. He looked ahead again.

Harry's black, tangled hair was bobbing in time with his footsteps, and his hand was small and warm in Frank's own brown and wrinkled palm. And suddenly Frank felt a huge need to protect the skinny, green-eyed boy who had barged into his life and so utterly destroyed his peaceful existence. Protect him at _any_ cost.

-----------------------------------------

"How far is it to the village?" Harry asked as they stepped out onto the rutted gravel road. The two outlaws had cut through the forest for as long as they could, but they were going to get lost if they kept at the tangled scrub. Besides, it was hard work making their way through the overgrown woods around the village. Frank was looking tired and worn already, and Harry squeezed his hand and gave him a quick smile, which was returned wearily.

"Less than an hour," the old man answered quietly.

Harry glanced at the sky. They'd already lost the sun behind the tops of the taller trees, but he estimated they had several more hours before moonrise. Once they reached the village, it was a matter of finding shelter for his transformation and calling for help as well. There was a faint chance – the very thought made him giddy – that they could somehow contact wizards before the sun had set, and Harry might even be able to reach 12 Grimmauld Place before he transformed. But as he didn't yet know how to contact _anyone,_ that was a faint chance. In the meantime, they had to be prepared to stay hidden from any Death Eaters that came to search the village.

"You sure you can find us somewhere to hide?" Harry asked uncertainly.

Frank nodded. "Ian Suttles, The barkeep of the local pub, is a decent fellow. He won't turn us away, and he won't hand us over either. You said you'd have to stay in someone's basement for the night – well, Ian's got a wine cellar that will probably do."

Harry nodded. He could hole up in there for the night and in the morning…in the morning everything was going to be solved…

Would Sirius come to collect him? Or had Sirius truly forgotten about him? Hermione and Ron hadn't, or not the way Frank had told it. Maybe they would come with Dumbledore to take him back to Hogwarts. Or maybe Aurors would come. That was a frightening thought. For as long as he and Sirius had been fugitives, Harry had been taught to fear and avoid the Ministry who had wanted him dead. He would have to be careful not fall into their hands.

_I'm going home_, he thought again, relishing the taste of the words.

That was the last time he thought them that night.

From somewhere behind them, there was the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. Harry's head whipped around. In the green shadows under the trees, cloaked figures were moving out onto the road. Black-cloaked figures with white masks and wands drawn.

A roaring seemed to fill Harry's ears, an aural soup of fear and the pumping of his heart. He tightened his grip on Frank's hand and then his legs were moving of their own accord and he was running, dragging the old man behind him. All his fatigue was gone, his feet slamming into the gravel so hard chips were flying up and bouncing off his jeans, he ran faster than he had ever flown on a broomstick…

Very distantly, muffled by the pounding of his blood in his ears, Harry heard a voice cry, "_Avada Kedavra!_" He didn't even register the words, but out of the corners of his eye he saw a green light flash out, barely visible in the bright sunlight, and then suddenly Frank's weight was much more than it had been a moment before.

He turned as Frank fell forwards, still holding tightly to Harry's hand. The boy, not thinking to let go, was dragged forward with him. He realised Frank had tripped and he dropped onto one knee to help the old man onto his feet.

But the gardener wasn't moving. Harry swore badly, and shouted, "Frank!" in a voice that sounded high, thin and terrified. Why wasn't he moving? He thought of the green flash. _It must be a freezing curse_, he thought in despair, rolling Frank over. The old man's face registered mild surprise, his eyes gazing blankly at the blue sky above them. "Frank, get _up_," Harry grunted, taking the gardener under the arms and trying to drag him to his feet.

The black-cloaked figures were running towards him now, four of them, their wands pointed straight ahead and their feet making, _crash, crash_, sounds on the road. One of them shouted, "Don't shoot, you idiot! You might have hit the boy!"

"I never miss!" another bellowed in return.

Harry was beyond panic, now. There was a white-hot terror rushing through him. He couldn't think. He had to leave Frank, because the old man was petrified and neither of them would get away if he didn't run _now_…but they would _kill_ Frank if he left him behind…_run now!_ His brain screamed but he was still dragging Frank under the arms and he couldn't leave him…they would kill him…

…and why wasn't Frank breathing…why wasn't he moving…

The Death Eaters had drawn level and circled around him. Harry let Frank go and twisted on the spot, searching for a space between the swishing black robes through which he might escape, but the circle was tightening. He raised his fists, gasping in short little breaths because this wasn't how it was supposed to go, and something was wrong with Frank…

"Oh, don't try and fight us, Potter," one of the black-cloaked figures said in a smooth, cold voice. "It really would be much easier for everyone if you came quietly."

"What did you do to Frank?" Harry panted, stepping protectively over the old man's skinny body and digging his heels into the gravel for balance, one leg on either side of Frank's chest. "Make him right again!"

For a moment none of them seemed to know what he was talking about, then the white-masked man with the cold voice glanced at the body lying prone on the ground. He started to laugh. "What do you mean, make him right?"

"Take off the curse!" Harry shouted. "Don't you hurt Frank – he didn't have anything to do with this…"

They all got the joke and began to laugh, deep guffaws and high little titters, and Harry couldn't understand why. He didn't understand what was so funny, his head still dizzy and his lungs flapping frantically in his chest to get enough air. And _why_ wasn't Frank breathing, what had that green light been, and why did it look so familiar?

Why was he thinking about his mother? Harry blinked, swaying as if he was going to collapse. The Death Eaters had stopped laughing now and were closing in towards him like crows around a carcass, holding their wands at the ready. He could hear his Mother crying, _"Please, don't hurt Harry…_" and that cold,

high voice replying, "_oh, I won't kill him…no, I won't…I'll just kill you…_"

And then there had been a green flash.

"No," Harry bent and tugged at Frank's collar. "No," it came out as a croak. "Get up, Frank. It was just a petrifying curse, that's all it was, now _get up!_"

"He's _dead,_ Potter," said the cold voice. One of the other Death Eaters jumped at Harry and grabbed his arms, pulling him away from Frank, who could _not_ be dead, who _absolutely_ could not be dead. Harry yelled and fought him, flopping and wriggling like a fish, but the man picked him up as if he was nothing more than a sack of rice and dragged him away. The body they left lying on the sun-warmed gravel, unmoving, with the blue sky above and the trees leaning over the road on either side like the pillars of some huge gate.

-------------------------------------------

"Be careful!" Hestia squeaked as Sirius stepped out onto the doorstep and stopped, gawking in surprise.

A muggle farm truck was impaled in the front wall of number thirteen Grimmauld Place, having missed number twelve by about a foot – probably thanks to the Fidelius charm. The front of the truck was completely mangled and pouring steam from under the crushed bonnet. Shard of debris from the car and large chunks of wood from the house were strewn across the street, some sticking upright in the lawn of number twelve like a rain of javelins. A rugged middle-aged muggle with a ciggarette dangling from his lower lip was jogging towards the wrecked vehicle, shouting in horror and clutching at his greying hair. "My truck!" Hestia heard him scream. "My truck!"

The muggle couple who lived in number thirteen had come charging out of their house, having to push away hunks of weatherboarding to get the front door open. The man was holding a screaming baby and the woman was crying. "Oh my God!" with her hands to her mouth. One of the other neighbours, a scrawny woman in a yoga outfit, came sprinting towards the truck from across the street. "Is anyone hurt?" she yelled at the couple whose house had been subject to this unexpected attack. "Is there someone in the car?"

There was someone in the car. Someone in the driver's seat who was slumped against the wheel, the seatbelt cutting into his or her shoulder. "Who _is_ that?" Hestia hissed.

A deep growl crescendoed in Sirius' throat, culminating in a yell, "It's _Maud!_"

He was right. He was ready to murder someone.

As Sirius moved to leap down the steps, Hestia grabbed the back of his collar with one hand and the frame of the door with the other. She clutched as tightly as she could to both, but it was all she could do to keep him from flying at the wrecked car and its occupant. Sirius strained against her grip, and Hestia clung to the doorframe with the tips of her fingers, so that a sort of tug-of-war ensued for a few moments between Sirius and the doorframe, with Hestia acting at the rope.

"I'll kill her!" Sirius roared. "Let me go, Hestia, I'll kill her!"

"Fine," Hestia muttered, feeling his shoulders click from the effort of holding Sirius back, and let go of the doorway. The two of them tumbled down the front steps and landed in a heap at the bottom, getting their dress robes tangled as they fought to stand up. Sirius scrambled to his feet first. Hestia grabbed his wrist as he straightened and pulled herself up with him, and they both dashed towards the car.

The muggle neighbours were gathering around the driver's door, babbling to each other. Sirius cleared the crowd with the sheer force of his fury, pushing the rugged man aside, Hestia following at his heels.

Maud, her dull brown hair strewn across her face, was slowly sitting up, clutching her head. Sirius didn't give her another moment to recover. He leaned in through the window, grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to pull her out of the car. Since the seatbelt was still holding her in place he was not very successful at this, so he just shook her instead. Several people shouted angrily at this rough treatment of a young woman, including Hestia. Sirius ignored them.

"You traitor!" he shouted. "He took you in! He cared for you! Murdering little cow!"

"What're you doing?" the young man with the baby demanded, trying to pull Sirius off Maud and hold onto the wailing child at the same time.

"Stop it!" the neighbour in the yoga outfit ordered.

"Sirius!" Hestia shouted in his ear, wrapping one arm around his neck to drag him out of the car, but it was like trying to wrestle a bear. She hurriedly tried to think of a hex to cast on him that wouldn't look suspicious in front of the muggles.

Maud's head was lolling, her hands batting weakly at Sirius, but she was too dazed to fight him off. "Harry," she said hoarsely. "Harry in Little Hangleton."

Sirius and Hestia froze. "What?" he croaked. Maud broke into a fit of painful coughing. Sirius shook her again for good measure, _"What did you say?_"

"For God's sake, Sirius let her go!" Hestia yelled and, in conjunction with the young man with the baby, finally managed to drag him away from the car window. She opened the door and fumbled with Maud's seatbelt for a moment, though it took her a moment to work out how to unfasten the muggle contraption. Once Maud was free of the seatbelt, Hestia draped the young woman's arm around her neck and helped her out of the seat. The rugged man with the ciggarette was groaning over his shattered vehicle, but Hestia pushed past him and sat Maud down on the lawn. She leaned her against the back wheel of the truck and knelt in front of Maud, pulled out her wand and pointed it at Maud's chest.

"Are you hurt?" she asked quietly.

"'Course I'm bloody hurt!" Maud snarled, rubbing the back of her head. "I think that bastard broke my neck. Is my foot still there?"

Hestia saw that there was a nasty gash on Maud's calf. _"Episkey,"_ She muttered, carefully blocking the spell from the view of the muggles standing behind her. The gash stopped bleeding and began to seal itself up. "Now," said Hestia coldly, returning her wand tip to Maud's face. "What did you say about Harry?"

Maud, her head leaning sideways and her hair falling in a matted veil over her face, finally met Hestia's eyes. "Harry Potter is in Little Hangleton," she said faintly. "Remus sent me to find _him,_" her eyes flicked up to Sirius standing shock still behind Hestia, looking down at them in a mixture of murderous desire and shock. Maud coughed again and began to moan. "Fenrir will kill me," she sobbed. "He'll never take me back. He'll hunt me down like he did Remus."

Sirius knelt and grabbed the front of Maud's dress. "You gave him to Greyback," he said in disgust. "Why're you helping him now?"

Maud gave a pitiful sob. "He was nice to me. And he didn't ask me to save him. I thought he would. But he didn't – all he cared about was saving Harry and it was _hurting_ me, thinking about what I did. He told me I had to come and tell you where Harry was, and you have to get there before dawn tomorrow. That's what he said."

More neighbours had turned up now, and all the muggles were standing around listening curiously, except for the man who owned the truck, who was still lamenting its demolition. Hestia glanced at them briefly, but as none of them seemed to be running off to call the police, decided they were harmless for the moment.

"He's alive?" Sirius asked, tightening his grip on the collar of Maud's dress. "Remus is alive?"

"I don't know. He was when I saw him."

"Is he alright?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Why dawn tomorrow? What's going to happen?" Sirius asked savagely.

"I don't know! That's what he said!"

Hestia, hearing the muggles grumbling, reached forward and pried Sirius' fingers of Maud's dress. "Come on," she whispered, jerking her head at the crowd. "We don't want to have to Obliviate this lot." Sirius' glare didn't leave Maud's face, but he nodded. The two of them picked Maud up under the arms and frogmarched her away from the wreck, the cluster of muggles parting in front of them.

"Why did you crash into that house?" Hestia asked in a reprimanding tone.

Maud made a frustrated face. "I knew you were in number twelve but I couldn't find it. I couldn't _see_ it because of the stupid charm or whatever it is, but I knew it had to be there. I was trying to make a noise so you'd come out and find me."

"Well, you made it," Sirius said coldly. "Didn't it occur to you to just hoot the horn a few times or something instead of ramming a truck into a wall? You could have killed someone. Possibly yourself," he said in a disappointed voice.

"I had my seatbelt on," Maud said confidently.

"How long did it take you to drive here?" Sirius pressed.

Maud shrugged. "About four and a half hours."

"Good," he whispered, glancing at the blue sky. "Then there's still time."

They had reached the space behind number twelve where Sirius parked his flying motorbike. Hestia suddenly realised why he had lead them here. "You're going _now?_" she said. "You're just going to fly off and get Harry?"

Sirius let her take Maud's weight and went to start up the motorbike. It gunned into life with a roar. He looked at Hestia. "You heard her," he answered over the growl of the bike as he pulled off his dress robes to reveal a more comfortable set of clothes underneath. He swung his leg over the seat of the bike. "By dawn tomorrow, Lupin said. And when the sun sets in about four hours, Maud turns into a wolf and can't give us directions to anywhere. You call Dumbledore, gather the Order and track down this Little Hangleton place. You can find me there."

Hestia looked as if she wanted to protest, but after a moment she nodded in mute resignation. Arguing would do no good. Sirius was Sirius and she couldn't convince him to be anyone else. She helped Maud climb onto the bike behind Sirius. Neither Maud nor Sirius looked happy with this arrangement, but there wasn't exactly an alternative. Maud clutched his jacket with a scandalised look on her face, as if Sirius smelled particularly rotten.

"I'll Disillusion you," Hestia said. Her voice cracked at the end and she realised there was an awful sick feeling in her stomach that meant she wanted to sit down and have a cry. She stepped up to the motorbike and raised her wand to cast the spell. Sirius leaned forward and gently bumped foreheads with her. Before she even knew she had done it, Hestia had thrown her arms over his shoulders and was hugging him so tightly she could feel the zip on his jacket pressing in her chin and his breath on her neck. "Please be safe," she whispered. "Don't die for some stupid reason, okay?"

"Okay," Sirius replied, shooting her a lopsided grin as they broke apart. Hestia rapped him on the head with her wand and the Disillusionment charm spread over the two riders and the motorbike, giving the impression that a pair of watery ghosts were sitting in the air. Sirius revved the bike.

"You point me in the right direction," he called over his shoulder at Maud, who was now clinging to him with her eyes tight shut. "Hey! Keep your eyes open!"

Maud squeaked and opened her eyes a crack. The bike jumped and then they were rising up into the air, a see-through, liquid mix of shapes. Hestia stepped back; waving her hand in front of her face as choking exhaust blew across her. She could hear Maud screaming shrilly, but it was getting more difficult to see the nearly invisible motorbike against the clear blue of the sky. The growling of the bike faded along with Maud's shrieks as Sirius turned them and flew over the roof of number twelve Grimmauld place. Hestia strained her eyes until she was certain she could see them no more.

_Dumbledore_, thought Hestia. _Little Hangleton. Dawn._

She turned and hurried towards the back door of the house, trying not to dwell on the smell of Sirius' hair and the question of whether she was going to see him again.

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TBC

A/N: Oh, Maud, you little rodent. Driving cars into people's houses. Won't you ever learn? I guess that's why we love you – and by love, I mean 'want to strangle.'

Hey there, my lovely reviewers :D

I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday. She's going to University in Dunedin and I won't see her again for months. I can barely believe it. She's the only person whom I can talk to for six hours straight without getting bored. She's the cleverest, most dedicated and knowledgeable Harry Potter fan I've ever met – she's also passionately opposed to reading fanfiction. Well, Emma this chapter's for you! If you knew I was writing this story, you'd give me a clap round the head and tell me to get back to the books. Ha!


	20. Eternal Life

A/N: Two chapters left after this one.

There are no author's notes at the bottom of today's chapter, so I will say everything here. This is the longest chapter to date. My God it is long. It's practically a story all of its own. And I'm warning you now, _it's mostly talking, it may be boring at parts_. I have cut it down as much as I can but that's as far as I'm going.

All the things that (I have felt) would not have made sense to the readers should be explained in this chapter. I know you all took my word on all the weird goings-on but there _were_ explanations behind all of them that I have wanted to clarify the entire series and have had to bite my tongue to keep from revealing. I present to you now the explanations –

As for the _new_ questions at the end – they, too, will be resolved in the final chapters.

Enjoy. Take your time. I really want to know what you guys think of this chapter – _criticism encouraged! _Look for flaws if you can. I appreciate hearing about them.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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There's a kind of disbelief that overcomes you in the worst situation. Complete numbness – a calming endorphin, _this is not happening_ – like the after-effects of a blow to the head. It allows you to think without panic, run without stumbling, lie without hesitation. Disbelief quells fear. It does not last long, but sometimes it is enough. And sometimes it isn't.

Neville was in such a state of disbelief. It might have helped that he could not believe he was still alive. Every now and then there was a flash of sharp pain in his forehead, then it would subside and he would think, _this is not happening_.

He must have passed out after the grey-eyed Malfoy had hexed him outside the Three Broomsticks. Certainly he could not remember how he came to be in this majestic, dusty house, lit with ruddy candles that gleamed off white masks floating in heaps of black hoods, like many dark-eyed moons. _Death Eaters_, Neville thought, and he almost laughed because Dumbledore would never let Death Eaters get a hold of him. Dumbledore had always kept him safe, ever since his parents died and he had been rescued and taken to the hospital…Dumbledore had been there then…and since then he had always been safe…

_You left Hogwarts,_ a voice behind his eyes whispered before the disbelief shoved it roughly aside.

The freezing charm had been removed. He was walking of his own accord, with black-gloved hands holding his arms behind his back. He looked around him in wonder at the huge hall they were passing through, spying above the banisters a myriad of paintings so thick with grime and age as to leave their subjects unrecognisable. The cultured voice of Malfoy snapped, "Eyes down," followed by a clap to the back of his head. He bent his neck and watched his feet treading across a tiled floor and tried to believe that this really could not be real.

There were black-robed figures in every doorway and dusky corner, watching him through the holes in their masks. His guard stopped him before they passed out of the hall and handed him on to another Death Eater who twisted his wrist to hold him still. Neville bit down on his tongue to keep himself from making a sound.

"Slughorn," Malfoy said, and one of the figures peeled out of the unlit doorway and came forward. This new man was fat, short and unmasked, his face round and decorated by a huge grey moustache. He did not look cruel, merely regretful. Malfoy spoke coolly, "I assume your experiment has been successful."

Slughorn nodded slowly. "It has worked as perfectly as could be hoped," he said regretfully. "Though it is difficult for me to detect any detrimental effects because of the state of the subject. His rough treatment by Greyback – even after I said no one was to lay a hand on him –"

"_You_ try telling that animal Greyback to get out," the grey-eyed man interrupted impatiently. "And the potions are all prepared?"

Slughorn paused, then said quietly, "Yes."

Malfoy nodded. "Good work. You have done everything that was requested of you. You are dismissed."

Neville raised his eyes a little just in time to see him bring up his wand and whisper something, and out shot a jet of green light. Neville flinched and cried out, but Slughorn was already toppling to the ground with the weight and dolour of an ancient mammoth. Neville stared at the body, aghast, but the dead man had a strangely composed look on his face, as if he had completely expected what was coming and felt no desire to defend himself.

The masked Malfoy turned and beckoned for Neville's guard to follow him. Neville was pushed onwards, stumbling as he passed the still body of Slughorn.

Down a hallway, through a parlour, and down another hallway. Malfoy told the other guard to leave them and took Neville onwards himself. A wide pair of double-doors opened before them and beyond that they stepped into what seemed to be a huge ballroom, the high ceiling supported by a pair of large pillars. It was bare of furniture, though a gaudily coloured muggle mural flowed across one long wall. Bright lights of obvious magical origin, burning without flickering or smoking, were hung from the pillars leaving no corner of the room in shadow.

In the centre of the room, a man stood with his back to the door. Where the rest of the Death Eaters were clad in plain black, he wore deep, billowing red robes hemmed by thin gold thread. Neville had never seen red and gold look less like the Gryffindor colours. As the boy and his guard entered the room the man turned to face them.

But it wasn't a man. It was something serpentine and mutated, a brutal perversion of a human face with thin white lips, black slits where there should have been a nose and eyes that seemed as red as his robes in the shining enchanted lights. And at that, Neville stopped disbelieving that this was all a dream and at any moment this awful scene would be swept away and he would wake up in his bed, terrified but safe. He felt Malfoy's hand marching him forwards and kicking the back of his knees so that he fell forward and knelt on the wooden floor of the ballroom. The man that was a snake stepped towards him, his hand moving to the wand at his belt.

A pressure had been building in the scar on Neville's forehead and at that moment it exploded with greater intensity than anything he had ever felt. Dimly, he heard himself groaning, but almost as soon as it had struck it burned out and faded away. The snake-man _(Voldemort, Neville, _Dumbledore's voice whispered at the back of his skull, _Call him Voldemort and be done with it, for he won't go away if you pretend he's someone else)_ glanced over Neville with cool collection and then raised his eyes to Malfoy.

"I trust there were no problems?"

Malfoy started to say, "No, my lord-" but he quickly changed it to, "He got past us at the gate, my Lord, but we caught him in the village. Apart from that, there was no trouble," and then, as if trying to change the subject, he added, "Slughorn has finished his work and been dealt with."

Voldemort nodded. "You were lucky, Lucius. You will not rely on luck again."

"Of course not," Malfoy said simperingly. From out of his robes he drew a wand that Neville recognised at once and held it out to his master. "This is the boy's wand, My Lord."

Voldemort gave it a haughty look. "You may hold onto it for now, Lucius. Go and fetch the second potion. Leave the boy."

Out of the corner of his eye, Neville say Malfoy slip his wand back in his robes, bow jerkily and turn. He heard his long strides echo down the hall and fade away out the door, which swung shut behind him with a thud. Now he was alone in the huge room with the red-robed creature that was the root of all of this.

Voldemort slowly circled Neville with the air of a judge inspecting a prize dog at a pet show – or perhaps a man eyeing up a steer at a slaughterhouse. A brief smile flickered across his lips as he stopped in front of the kneeling boy.

"Are you being tracked?" he asked suddenly, the words cutting through the silence.

Neville felt ill, weak, numb, despairing, but the last vestiges of determination told him to play his hand as well as he could. He couldn't look away from those piercing red eyes but he could still speak, even if he felt like he was about to vomit. "Dumbledore's right behind me," he croaked. "He keeps tabs on me all the time. It won't be long before he arrives, and he'll be bringing reinforcements."

The smile flickered again on Voldemort's lips and pain blossomed on Neville's forehead. He bent forwards, retching until it died away and he could straighten up again. "You're lying, Neville," said Voldemort serenely. "Do not do it again. No one is following you. You are," he began to circle again, "completely," he enunciated slowly, "alone."

Neville didn't reply. He didn't think he could collect his shredded thoughts long enough to form any more words.

"You know, I expected more than this," Voldemort said cynically. "You are spoken of so _highly_ among Wizards. I imagined I would not be able to face you without some foolish battle, a tectonic struggle above which we might both rise and face each other as equals," he made a noise that might have indicated derision. "I will gladly admit how foolish that was. I've come to realise that the supposed Prophecies to which men such as Dumbledore cling are just as much nonsense as everything else the human race spouts."

He gave that flick of a smile again, and Neville realised it was nothing more than the compulsive action of a body that no longer remembered how to express any emotion. The smile meant no more than the flicking of a snake's tongue.

"But," Voldemort continued with a business-like air. "Perhaps all for the best. It would have been very difficult for me to kill you after tonight. You should be as glad as I am. As it is, everything will now be very quick and clean. I do not have time for theatrics."

In one swift motion he raised his wand and touched the tip of it to Neville's forehead, where the lightening-bolt scar was throbbing. Neville tensed, trying to throw himself out of the reach of the monster, but those red eyes held him fixated. Voldemort's mouth opened and half of the an incantation was on his lips, _"Avada-_"

At that moment, there was a crash as the doors to the great hall swung open. Voldemort looked up, his eye contact broken, and Neville was released from his gaze. The boy slid sideways and lay trembling on the floor with hands pressed to the varnished wood, knowing that a half-second more would have been the death of him and wondering whether to weep or cheer at his good fortune.

Malfoy entered and gave a swift bow. "Midnight is upon is, My Lord, and the late Slughorn said we would have only a short window to administer…"

Neville could not see Voldemort's face but he heard the soft anger in his voice. "You interrupted, Lucius."

Malfoy's head shot up and he swept his eyes over Neville lying splayed on the floor. "I-I apologise…" he said in a rush.

"Don't waste my time," Voldemort cut him off. "We will begin now, then," he glanced at Neville, who had not yet dared to move. He said playfully, "You've been given a few minutes, Neville. Would you like to see something fantastic?"

Neville kept his eyes on the floor and didn't answer. Voldemort gave a twitch of his wand and an invisible hand pushed against Neville, sliding him across the varnished floor. He came to rest against the wall of the room with a bump, still in plain sight but out of the way. He did not have to look around to know that Voldemort was still closer to the only exit than he was.

"Stay where you are, Neville, and I will keep my promise to make your death quick," Voldemort said casually as he turned away.

Malfoy had made some signal to the men outside the door, and Neville heard several pairs of feet enter the room . First came a short, hunched man with a pointed nose and sweat shining on his unmasked face. He was carrying a glinting glass bottle clutched to his chest. Beside him walked another man, thin, upright and masked like Malfoy. Behind them came the sounds of heavy, erratic steps. Neville raised himself a little, feeling as if his limbs were made of lead, and watched three burly Death Eaters emerge into his line of sight. They each held the end of a thick shining chain, and were dragging something into the ballroom.

It was a pitch-black wolf. Skinny and underfed, it snapped and growled at its captors with a feral desperation. It must have been a trick of the light, but it did not seem quite the right proportions of a wolf, and the flesh on one side of its head looked strangely twisted and scarred. At the sight of Voldemort, the wolf howled and strained against the chains, trying to reach the red-robed wizard.

"Give him the potion, Wormtail," Voldemort said lazily.

The short man looked up, his mouth slipping open a little. "M-My Lord…!"

"What? So frightened? It's only a boy," Voldemort said. Neville thought, _That potion is for me! They can't make me drink it…_

So he was very surprised when Wormtail, after blotting his forehead with his sleeve and giving a terrified whimper, stepped towards the thrashing wolf and not towards Neville at all. The animal snarled in warning and its jaw hung open, large enough to swallow Wormtail's hand whole. However, the three Death Eaters holding the chains were reeling it in. Neville noticed they were wearing what looked like dragonhide gloves, and the next moment they had grabbed the wolf around the neck and torso and pinned it down. One of them forced the animal's jaws open and Wormtail, screwing up his eyes, uncorked the glass bottle and with a shaking hand poured it into the wolf's open mouth. A few drops fell onto the varnished floor and began to smoke. The wolf made a pitiful noise and jerked violently in the arms of the Death Eaters. It twisted on its back and managed to buck off one of its captors. The other two let go and stepped back, and the wolf curled onto its side, whimpering.

The whimpering sounded almost human.

It happened in less time than it took to draw breath – there was the wolf, and then the next moment it was a boy lying with his knees drawn up and his eyes closed, gasping through his open mouth.

Neville didn't recognise him. The word _werewolf _flickered through his mind, along with a few scraps of information about the creatures that Professor Lupin had taught them.

Then the boy, without opening his eyes, spoke through gritted teeth. "Give me my glasses and something to wear." It was undoubtedly a command. And it wasn't until he heard the voice that Neville realised the boy was Harry.

Harry a werewolf. No wonder Hermione had been so sure that the dream had been false. Neville wanted to laugh at himself. He was so _stupid._ She'd tried to tell him and he hadn't even listened.

Wormtail jumped to obey Harry. Even Neville recognised this as strange, though he did not know who Wormtail was. It was strange because the short man did not wait for Voldemort's nod of assent. He hurried forward and dropped a folded pile of robe by the boy's feet, pushing the glasses into his open hand before retreating once more.

The other Death Eater who had walked in beside Wormtail gave a derisive laugh, high and sharp. Neville realised it was not a man, as he had supposed, but a woman with her form covered by her black cloak. "My Lord," she addressed Voldemort. "Wormtail should not be here tonight. He does not deserve to witness your power. Look at him, already jumping to assist your enemies! Send him away."

Voldemort swung his red eyes towards her with such weight she recoiled. "Wormtail is acting exactly as he should," Voldemort hissed. "And he has been more helpful these past months than _you_, Bella. Speak out of turn again and you will be sent away in his place."

This reduced the masked woman to wordlessness at once. She made a strangled noise of protest and then fell silent, bowing her head.

As this exchange had been transpiring, Harry had put on his glasses and pulled on the loose black robe, which must have belonged to a Death Eater because the hem seemed to have been sown up about a foot and the sleeves were far too long. The collar was high and made him look strangely pious, as if to contrast the rough, ugly scars across his face. He was still crouched on the floor between the three bulky Death Eaters, but his eyes were sweeping the room and they fell on Malfoy, standing to one side.

How Harry knew it was Malfoy under the mask, Neville couldn't be sure. But know he did. Harry's lips curled in a snarl and he leapt up, shot across the floor hunched over in some resident animal instinct, ducked under the fingertips of one of the burly Death Eaters and launching himself at Malfoy.

Malfoy stepped back in surprise, but there was no need. The other two Death Eaters had grabbed Harry's arms just before he collided with his target.

"You bastard! I'll kill you!" Harry screamed, kicking out and trying to drag his arms out of the Death Eater's grasp. They were fighting to hold him back from Malfoy, who stood calmly in front of the raging boy. "He didn't do anything! You could have stunned him, you could have let him be! I'll kill you, you scum!"

Voldemort had his wand raised in a moment and suddenly Harry's back arched and he was jerking like a fish on a line. His yells were cut off but weak grunts escaped from his lips as eight pairs of eyes watched the black-haired boy twisting in the arms of the burly Death Eaters. At last, Voldemort lowered his wand and Harry slumped, limp and strung between the two pairs of hands.

"Bella may be right," Voldemort said quietly. "You are too unruly, Harry."

Harry raised his eyes slowly to look at his antagonist. There were pure hate behind his glasses. Neville felt his scar twinging, and wondered whose emotions he was picking up. Harry spat hoarsely, "Try and kill me, then. Can't, can you? Beginning to regret that?"

"Perhaps Slughorn's potion was not as effective as he claimed," Malfoy said with a chuckle. "The boy still seems to possess a rather wolfish tongue, wouldn't you say?"

Harry's whipped towards him, ready to let rip another stream of abuse, and he suddenly caught sight of the tall window behind Malfoy. The white globe of the moon was just moving from behind a bank of cloud, and Harry cringed as the light fell on his face. The Death Eaters holding him shifted nervously, and Neville got ready to run if he had to. But nothing happened. Harry looked down at his pale hands, and then back at the glowing full moon.

"I'm human," he whispered. He pulled away from one of the Death Eaters holding him. "Let me go!"

"Release him," Voldemort said lazily. The hands clamped to Harry's arms opened and he staggered forwards, still counting his own fingers in wonder. The corner of Voldemort's mouth twitched. "You see what I've done for you, Harry?" he said. "Still so ungrateful? You're not cured yet, but you will be. There is one more potion, to be taken at dawn, and then you'll be rid of your condition forever."

Harry touched the back of his hand reverently, then rubbed it fiercely as if checking for any traces of fur. He looked up at Voldemort and met those shining red eyes head on, making Bellatrix step forward convulsively as if in defence of her master. "I won't do anything for you," Harry said savagely. "Nothing."

Voldemort raised his wand again and Harry crumpled under the cruciatus curse. He screamed once before the snake-faced monster lifted the curse and strode over to look down at the shuddering boy from beneath hooded lids. "You do not look upon my face. Do so again and you will _beg_ me to kill you," he said. "Now get up."

Harry gritted his teeth, but slowly he pushed himself to his feet. He stared at the floor, rubbing one arm where he had landed on it too heavily. Neville suddenly saw a vision of himself in Harry's place, as a sulky youngster being reprimanded by Dumbledore. Harry and Voldemort, Neville and Dumbledore. Two pairs, and Neville knew there were parallels there that he wasn't even aware of.

"Lucius," Voldemort extended one long-fingered hand like a surgeon standing in front of an operating table. "The wand, please."

Malfoy took Neville's wand out of his robe and handed it silently to Voldemort, who took it without looking away from Harry. He held it out to the boy before him. "Take it," he said silkily. "Let us see if it is of any use to you. Don't bother trying to curse me, I already know how uneducated you are at spell-work."

Harry didn't move for a moment, then, still avoiding Voldemort's eye, he snatched the wand and held it in both hands. "This isn't mine," he said after a moment. "Where is the wand that Sirius gave me? Who's is this?"

"That's mine!" Neville cried. All eyes in the room turned in his direction as he got to his feet. His legs still felt like waterweed but he forced them to step forward. "That's my wand. Give it back."

Harry stared him. He didn't seemed to recognise him until he said in wonder, "You're Neville."

"Yes," Neville stepped forward again, wanting Harry to remember him and know him and realising that though he had watched Harry in his dreams for months, the other boy had next to no idea who he was. "And you're Harry," he said sadly.

"I had almost forgotten you, Neville," Voldemort smoothly ended their brief conversation. "You should have stayed quiet. Give my regards to your parents," he lifted his wand to cast the killing curse and Neville wanted to run but he knew he would not go anywhere. He would have given anything to have his wand back in his hand in that moment. He knew the curse was unblockable but to die clutching hope was better than dying unarmed.

"Stop it!" Harry yelled, lifting Neville's wand and pointing it straight at Voldemort's thin greyish throat.

Voldemort's eyes slid sideways to look at him. "Harry," he said, and there was a faint smile on his lips now. "You barely know how to _use_ that wand. _Expelliarmus!_"

Harry yelped as the jinx hit his hand and the wand shot up, curved in an arch through the air and descended, spinning, towards the floor. Malfoy caught it with one hand. Voldemort had the tip of his own wand on Harry's throat now. Bellatrix had flashed across the room in a swirl of black cloak and taken a hold of Neville, twisting his arms behind his back. He didn't fight her.

"Heroism is not why I chose you," Voldemort hissed to Harry. "But it comes from your father. He was a foolish little boy too. If he'd only stepped out of my way I might have spared him, though your mother had to die. But he fought me until I killed him, and so you were left parentless. By his overzealous self-sacrifice."

Neville could not believe how Harry did not cower and weep in front of that terrible figure. But though he bore the taunts, his fists were shaking. "Why?" Harry whispered. "Why spare me? Why make me what I am, plant your filthy soul in me? A _paperclip_ would make a better Horcrux than I have. That's what I don't understand," the shudders were running over his whole body. "So much effort just to destroy the life of a four-year-old boy. What's the _point_?" he spat bitterly.

Voldemort drew his head back a little in a very snake-like motion. He considered Harry for a moment, then lowered the wand. "Yes," he said slowly. "You should know. I think, in the end, you might appreciate the _effort_." He turned his eyes to where Neville stood motionless in Bellatrix's grip. "And Dumbledore's favourite can listen too. Yes," he stepped back and paced away from Harry for a moment.

Abruptly he spun around and gestured at the three burly Death Eaters who were standing stupidly to one side. "Goyle, Crabbe, Avery – you may go. You will learn everything tomorrow. Tell all the others in the house that at dawn they are to return to this room."

The three Death Eaters bowed and hurried out of the room, closing the double doors behind them but without locking it. Neville watched them go with rising hope. If he could only get away from the woman holding him, he might be able to make a break for it. For the first time that night, a fierce determination to live seized him.

"My lord…?" Bellatrix asked tentatively.

"Yes, Bella, you are to stay here," Voldemort had anticipated her question and he nodded to her. " You, Lucius and Wormtail will watch the proceedings tonight, and remain with me until the others return tomorrow. I will have need of you, do not fear."

"Thank you, Lord!" Bellatrix cried joyously. Lucius and Wormtail quickly muttered their thank-yous as well. Voldemort raised his hand for silence and turned back to Harry.

"Have you heard the Prophecy that was made," Voldemort asked. "Concerning your birth?"

After a moment, Harry shook his head. Neville frowned. Concerning _Harry's_ birth? But the Prophecy had been about Neville! Neville thought he would have given anything to have Harry in his place – then immediately regretted the thought. No one deserved the burden he had been given.

"It spoke of one who would have the power to defeat the Dark Lord," Voldemort hissed quietly. "And it could have applied to either yourself, or our other guest tonight, Neville Longbottom."

Harry glanced curiously at Neville, who had already heard all this from Dumbledore, at the beginning of the previous year. He'd always known something of it, of course – after the effort Dumbledore had made to keep him safe and hidden throughout his life, it had been easy to work the general idea out – but the full contents of the Prophecy had not been told until after the Death Eaters had invaded Hogwarts the year before. Neville sudden felt himself go rigid. Dumbledore had told him that Voldemort had never learned the second half of the Prophecy – but Neville had heard it in its entirety, and knew it by rote! What if Voldemort realised this…?

Voldemort began to speak again. "When one of my spies brought me the news of the Prophecy fourteen years ago, my first thought was to act at once and destroy this threat before it could even take root, while the subject was still a baby. I was certain that killing both you and Neville as soon as you were born would essentially neutralise the Prophecy. I set out to do just that, but I found to my great annoyance that the task was more difficult than I had anticipated. Dumbledore had already warned all those involved of the danger they were in."

Voldemort turned his eyes on Neville, who looked away quickly, remembering the paralysing power of those eyes. The red-robed figure began to speak again. "The Longbottoms quickly cut their ties and disappeared before I could find them. Layered with a myriad of powerful spells for veiling and concealing, they took up new personas as muggles and gave up all magic that they could. Though their wands were always in reach, in every way possible they became an ordinary couple without a trace of anything magical about them. No one, not even Dumbledore, knew where they were or what their new names were. None of my spies could track them down. I'm sure you can understand how frustrating this way for me, but I turned my attention to the Potters instead."

He smirked at Harry. "Your parents took the opposite route and hid in plain sight. They, loyal fools, did not want to abandon your mother's charms research by removing themselves from the Wizarding world. So they adopted the complex Fidelius charm as their protection, and made their Auror friend, Sirius Black, the secret-keeper of the charm. Oh, how I might have rejoiced when I heard this news! Black was well known to be reckless, overly exuberant in his Auror duties, and according to certain spies," he looked quickly at Wormtail, "easily tricked. I was certain it would be a simple matter to find him and torture or cheat the information out of him."

Harry made an 'aha!' noise, and Neville saw that he was actually smiling. "But you couldn't. Sirius protected our family. You underestimated him!"

Voldemort pierced him with the glinting red gaze, and gave a high, cruel laugh. Harry fell silent. Voldemort was nodding. "Yes, Harry, at first Black did elude me. For two years, in fact. But before those two years were over I gave up hunting him. You see, something had occurred to me. Surely, I reasoned, it would have made much more sense for _Dumbledore_ to take the role as the Potter's secret-keeper? Perhaps, in fact, _was_ the secret-keeper? Would it not have been a clever ruse – while I concentrated my energies on catching a careless Gryffindor Auror, Dumbledore all the while remained out of my scope?"

"You were wrong-" Harry began.

"Yes, I was wrong. I discovered that quickly. And so I arrived at one final possibility," Voldemort cut him off. "Dumbledore _wanted_ me to find the Potters."

Harry stared at him. Neville was not quite sure he had heard right.

"The more I thought about it, the more the clues added up. I had received only half of the Prophecy – now why had Dumbledore not kept _that_ small fragment from me? He could easily have intercepted the eavesdropper who brought it to me. In fact, _did_ intercept the eavesdropper, and still let him go without any attempt to alter his memory. I came to realise – the first half of the Prophecy was not a slip on Dumbledore's part – it was a _lure_. Why? What did the _second_ half say? Perhaps it claimed that any attempt to kill the infant boy who might one day defeat me would end in my demise. Perhaps _that_ was Dumbledore's interpretation of the Prophecy all along, and now he was hoping to use it to catalyse my death."

"That's impossible!" Neville burst out. "Dumbledore would never do that. Harry – don't listen to him – Dumbledore only wanted your family safe!"

"Be quiet!" Bellatrix snarled, wrenching Neville's arms back to silence him. He bit down on his tongue, feeling as if his shoulders had been nearly dislocated. But he kept his eyes on Harry. The boy was staring at Voldemort with an empty expression on his face.

Voldemort waited to see if Harry would retaliate to his claims, and when the boy didn't respond, he continued. "So you see, I was in a difficult position. Two children, one of which was prophesised to be my downfall – but if my guess was right, trying to kill them would do me no good. In fact, if it did not destroy me, it would probably _create_ the very person who had the power to defeat me – or so I concluded. Three years had gone by since I had heard the Prophecy, and the boys were still no older than two. I had plenty of time to make my move, while the two families cowered in hiding. Wormtail had already been passing information to me for a long time, and I felt confident I could apprehend Black whenever I needed to and locate the Potters. The Longbottoms would take a little more effort, but I knew I would find them too."

Voldemort was pacing back and forth now, turning his flat face from Harry to Neville as if to remind himself of the events of the past years. His red robes _shush_ed across the floor like a restless serpent waiting at the hole of a mouse. There was a ringing tone to his high, cold voice, a hint of passion. Neville felt Bellatrix's hands trembling and wondered how she could feel so strongly for such a disgusting creature.

"I had only ever had two goals, Harry," Voldemort said. "The first is the disarray of the Wizarding world – an easy task, I'm sure you will agree. The Ministry is as corrupt and rotten as the most fetid corpse that I have raised as an Inferi. If I had wanted it, I could have been the Minister of Magic before your parents were even born. I tell you, it would have been easy – and who knows then what I might have done? But politics do not interest me. _Anarchy_ interests me. Chaos. That was the second motivation to all I have done since I left Hogwarts, half a century ago.

"The first, Harry, is immortality. You, with your noble Gryffindor sentiments and your self-sacrificing Godfather, could not comprehend the idea. But I have not just understood it – I have so nearly achieved it. The steps I have taken to bind myself in life and free myself from human failings are more than any wizard that has come before me."

"The Horcruxes," Harry spat, fury twisting his face. "I know about them. You _murdered_ people just to further your own _life!_ You're _foul_!"

Voldemort gave his cold laugh again. "So certain, Harry! It is sad to see you speak so ignorantly. Humans have accepted their _own_ mortality – is it not their _due_ to me, that they should aid me with their deaths? I, who alone among wizards, seeks _life_?"

"It's inhuman," Harry said, raising his fists. "Look at you. You've destroyed everything about yourself that was ever worth anything – for a few more years of life!"

Neville wanted to grab Harry and clap his hand over his mouth. _Don't anger him!_ He thought desperately,_ Please, Harry! My life depends on it…_

But Voldemort did not seem angry. His expression grew slowly into a smile. "Not just a few more years," he said, triumphant. "I have gone beyond that, Harry.

"But I digress – we return to your infancy," he placed one finger on his chin, musing, "I had placed spies with the Potters, and at long last with the Longbottoms, and having come to understand the consequences that would probably result from killing either of you, I went about it very carefully. I had chosen Neville as my first victim, for if the Prophecy came true, he would become the one destined to destroy me," he turned his face towards Neville with a glint in his red eyes. "You understand, Neville? I _chose_ you over Harry, to become my enemy."

He smiled to himself, perhaps at his own cleverness, and continued. "I tracked down the Longbottoms and killed them while my most loyal Death Eaters waited outside. And as I had suspected, the Prophecy became reality – _dear_ Alice Longbottom tricked me into a magical contract that decreed her life in exchange for her son's. Her death bound it. An easy trick that I could have caught if I had been paying attention."

Neville strained against Bellatrix, a red roar filling his ears. "She destroyed you!" he shouted. "My _mother_ – she _tricked_ you!"

"I have had enough!" Bellatrix snarled, pulling out her wand and pressing it to the back of Neville's neck. "Let me kill him, master. Impudent brat!"

"Unless you want to die, Bella, I suggest you let him be," Voldemort said smoothly. "You see, the protection that his noble mother placed on him still remains, and it safeguards from any servant of mine. If you tried to kill him, Bella, it would destroy you."

Clearly disappointed, Bellatrix lowered her wand slowly.

"I found this out by personal experience," Voldemort said grimly. "When I turned my wand on Neville, the curse rebounded and stripped me from my body – _ah!_ – you cannot imagine the pain you've caused me, Neville. But it was no matter. My Death Eaters were waiting for me, readily instructed for such an event. They entered the house, took Neville and completed the ritual to restore me to my body using his blood, the bones of my father, and the flesh of one of my most devoted servants, Bartemius Crouch."

"It should have been me," Neville heard Bellatrix mutter bitterly. If Voldemort heard her, he did not show it.

"The murder of the Longbottoms frightened Dumbledore and the Potters," he continued, licking his thin lips as if tasting the thought of their fear. "They were suddenly aware of how powerful I was, as they thought I had destroyed one of the boys of the Prophecy without activating it. What was to stop me from kidnapping their friend Black and coming next for Harry? I had ways of forcing the secret out of Black. So they thought up a _clever_ trick, and changed their Secret Keeper without telling anyone but those involved – transferred the secret to their good friend, Peter Pettigrew… _Wormtail_."

Harry's lips pulled back in a growl and for moment Neville thought he was going to attack Wormtail, but Malfoy stepped forward, holding his wand in plain site, and Harry held his anger at bay.

"Of course, you already know this story, Harry," Voldemort laughed. "Peter here betrayed your parents and I killed them. How _dreadfully_ tragic," he said mockingly. "Perhaps it is better, though, that they never found out what it was I did to _you_."

"They wouldn't care," Harry hissed, panting slightly as if he had been tangibly fighting his anger. "It never mattered to Sirius what I was. He kept me safe from you, you filth…"

Voldemort raised his hand, laughing. "If only, Harry! No, you were kept safe by my _own_ mistake. You see, I had anticipated an easy entry and escape. Slip in, kill your parents, use your mother's death to make you a Horcrux and vanish, leaving you wailing in the ruins as the miraculous survivor of your family's massacre. But when the sliver of soul that had split from me entered you, it created a backlash I had not expected. I was drained of strength, physically hurled from the window, but more distressing than that – you were _marked_."

His eyes flicked up to Harry's fringe, and Neville felt his own scar burn in response.

"That was _not_ how things were supposed to go," Voldemort said softly. "You were _supposed_ to be hidden. No one was to know you were bound to me, belonging to _me_. The scar gave everything away. Your inconvenient Godfather arrived on the scene, and I," there was something akin to self-disgust in his voice, "too weak to fight him, fled. And by the time I could rally my Death Eaters from the Ministry, you were gone. Less than a week later, that miserable werewolf friend of your parents had nearly killed you, and Dumbledore had discovered what you were. You had been exposed and contaminated, a werewolf yourself, and I thought all my plans were undone. I assumed Dumbledore would kill you-"

"He wanted to," Harry said. "Sirius stopped him."

"I know. I have my spies with Dumbledore, too," Voldemort snapped.

"Sirius protected me from you for _eight years_," Harry said proudly. "You never found me."

"Haven't I just told you?" Voldemort said coldly. "As a werewolf, you were _useless_ to me. I didn't _want_ to find you, Harry. Do you _really_ think that your careless, impulsive Godfather could hide you for so many years? Harry, I knew where you were during _every one_ of those years. I was interested in keeping you alive, but to me you had become one more failed experiment in immortality."

Harry shook his head, his face revolted and confused. "You're lying. What do you mean, a failed experiment? Am I… _not_ a Horcrux?"

"You are. But I have no use for a Horcrux in your present state," Voldemort repeated. "I even lost track of you without turning a hair when you moved to London. That was until, however, I heard about Horace Slughorn's research into a cure for Lycanthropy. At first he was dismissed as another failure, but when word came through that he was _truly_ on the road to a cure, I listened closer. Perhaps you _weren't_ irredeemable – and I had just discovered that the locket passed down from my mother, the Horcrux stolen by your Godfather's traitorous brother, was missing too. Evidently I had to keep better track of my possessions."

"I'm not yours!" Harry roared. "I don't _belong_ to you!"

"Do not delude yourself," Voldemort said impatiently. "I chose you, shaped you, took you back and have kept you in this house for a year waiting for Slughorn to finish his cure so that you could be rid of the lycanthropy that mars you. And at dawn, you will be _cured_! You should be thanking me, Harry – I have done what no one in history has done, I have brought about a cure for werewolves, and all for _you!_ But by that time…" Voldemort paused, "…you will not appreciate it."

"What do you mean?" Harry said fiercely, trying to hide a hint of fear.

Voldemort smiled, and then he began to pace again. "It was thanks to your parents, really. If I had tried to kill you soon after hearing the Prophecy, it would have been fulfilled, and I might have been destroyed, or at least crippled. But thanks to them you escaped for four years, and in that time, I turned towards myself and found what I knew to be inevitable. You see, the Horcruxes are my insurance from accidental death – what kills a normal man can only wound me, it cannot destroy me. But _age_ still thwarts me. My body may withstand curses but _time_ still destroys it slowly. I can preserve it with spells and potions, but they do not last. Ultimately my body will die and I will remain as a fragile ghost, bound uselessly to the world by the Horcruxes I myself created. I came to realise this during that long solace wherein you and Neville remained out of my reach.

"And I realised that there was only one way to overcome my own eventual aging," Voldemort stopped pacing and turned slowly to look at Harry. "I should have come to see it years ago. Does not the human race employ _exactly the same_ method of self-preservation? Do they not _replace_ the old and broken bodies with new, younger men and women, to carry on the species? _That_ was my answer. That was the only way to _truly_ escape death."

From across the room, Wormtail gave a sharp little gasp. Neville felt Bellatrix's talons dig harder into his shoulder. Harry did not move or make any sound. His face was unreadable.

Voldemort clasped his hands together, considering his memories as he recounted them. "I began to experiment. I already knew how to possess the bodies of other creatures, snakes being my preference. So I began to test the limits – how much of myself I could transfer to the body of another before I had to retreat and return to my own body. How long I could remain in the body of another creature. I learned so much… ah, more than any doddering scholar before me, more than _wise_ Dumbledore," the word was derisive on his lips, "could ever know. And I found there were many difficulties.

"My possession of another's body shortened its lifespan. Animals have semi-souls of their own, you know, and the body rejected _my_ soul as toxic. I knew that it would never do for me to live in constantly sickly bodies, abide for so short a time before having to move on to a new host – I needed a body that, like my own, would _last_. I needed to somehow… _inoculate_ my new body against its rejection of my soul.

"But how to prepare a body so that it would accept me? How to keep it from withering and dying in only a few years? How to make my soul _familiar_ enough to it that it would gladly provide itself for my use instead of struggling and rotting from within as all the snakes – and occasional wizards – did when I possessed them?" He spun around, his gaze stabbing Harry like a jeering finger. Voldemort's voice rose to new heights of exultation as he asked, "How do you think you prepare a body to accept a foreign soul, Harry?"

Harry didn't meet that piercing gaze. He was looking at a point just over Voldemort's shoulder, and now he closed his eyes slowly and whispered, as if he had simply read it in a textbook somewhere, "You make it a Horcrux."

"Yes!" Voldemort crowed. "You plant a piece of the foreign soul inside it. You leave it to fester for years – perhaps a decade, I calculated, or more, if you have time – and when the time comes, you remove the original soul, and the body _accepts_ the foreign soul as if it _never knew any better!_"

His mouth was pulled into a horrible, wide grin that looked maniacal and hungry. Harry hadn't opened his eyes yet, and he didn't answer.

"At first, I planned to wait," Voldemort continued with a self-satisfied smirk. "Once you were older, until you came of age. You would have lived as a normal boy, raised by your Godfather, I expect. Can you imagine it? Harry Potter, last of his family line, a parentless student of Hogwarts, but _so_ brave despite his troubles, and clever. Sure to be the next Head of the Auror division – and then one day he disappears and when he returns he is _not_ the Harry Potter that anyone remembers. If only you knew how familiar that story is to me… I chose you, Harry, because I saw… something of myself in you. When I was young, I even looked something like you," he touched his pasty-skinned cheek tentatively.

"But we no longer have time to wait. You were not hidden as I had hoped, but exposed as _my_ property from the beginning. I cannot risk another four years until you turn seventeen – you have caused enough trouble in this one year alone, Harry, as I tested you and watched you try to escape again and again. The transfer must be done now, before anything else goes wrong."

Abruptly his tone became business-like, "Lucius," he said, turning to his henchman. "You gave Nott my instructions?"

Lucius nodded behind his white mask. "Yes, My Lord. He left to fetch the Dementors as I arrived back."

"You're going to kill me," Harry whispered. There was so much despair in his voice it hurt to listen to it. _No!_ Neville wanted to shout, _We're getting out of here, both of us!_

"Quite the opposite, Harry. I am merely making room for me in your body," Voldemort replied, flicking the bottom of his robes back. "This is why I required a few loyal Death Eaters to remain with me. Once I had taken your form, the rest of my followers will not recognise me. They will take some time to adjust even once explanations have been made."

"Everyone will think you're dead," Harry said in a small voice. His legs seemed to give way and he crouched on the varnished floor in the moonlight with his arms hugged protectively around his body. "They'll only see me."

"There are spells to change faces," Voldemort shrugged. "And eventually I will reveal what I have done. You should be proud, Harry, that it is _your_ face I have chosen to wear."

"I've got scars," the boy protested, still in that tiny, despairing voice.

"Yes, that did frustrate me," Voldemort replied evenly. "I had hoped you might grow into the good looks I once held. Looks are half the charm, after all. But nevertheless – scars become you, Harry," again there came that mirthless smile. "I think I might grow to like them."

"But the piece," Harry said weakly, "the piece of your soul that's in me. The Dementors will… will eat it too… you can't…"

"An unfortunate consequence," Voldemort said thoughtfully. "But I do not know how to remove it as yet. Next time I need a new body I will make sure I do not lose a piece of my own soul in the process. But for now, I feel it is a necessary sacrifice."

Harry bent his head and began to weep into the crook of his folded arms. Bellatrix gave a hiss of revulsion, and Voldemort folded his hands. "I expected more than _this_, Harry," he said in a patronising voice. "Get up and face me."

Harry continued to sob. But Neville, smaller than Bellatrix, saw the flash of his glasses, and noticed that there were not sign of tears dripping onto them. Harry was not crying at all… he was only pretending.

"I said get _up,_" Voldemort said angrily. Harry crumpled and knelt face-down, giving miserable sniffs as if he was trying to keep his weeping at bay. Voldemort gestured at Malfoy. "Bind him," he said, "until the dementors arrive."

Malfoy, his expression hidden behind his mask, stepped forward, reaching into his robes for his wand. He stood over the tormented boy for a moment, looking down at him in silence. Then he bent down, already conjuring ropes out of thin air.

It happened in a blur of black robes. Harry rose and the top of his head collided with the underside of Malfoy's chin. The Death Eater reeled back and the boy was already upon him, snatching the wand sticking of his pocket and punching his fist so hard into Malfoy's throat Neville thought he could almost hear the sound of a windpipe being crushed.

Bellatrix let go of Neville and pushed him to one side. "_Tarantella!_" She screeched, just as Voldemort brought up his own wand and screamed, _"Stupefy!_"

Harry threw himself forward and both spells shot over his head. He scrambled to his feet, hurling the wand aside as he went, and collided with Voldemort like a small black bull, knocking the thin white hand that held the wand away and grabbing the front of the blood-red robes.

His eyes were perfectly dry. "As if I would ever cry in front of you," he hissed, his nose inches away from the snake-like face.

"_Crucio!_" Bellatrix screamed, and Harry crumpled backwards, his hands falling away from Voldemort's robes. He arched on the ground, screaming hoarsely. Malfoy, clutching his jaw, staggered forward making a horrid wheezing sound.

Forgotten in the fray, the wand that Harry had tossed aside skidded across the floor and came to a stop between Wormtail and Neville.

Neville tensed on his hands and knees, ready to make a grab for it and waiting for Wormtail to pull out his own wand and curse him. Wormtail was standing with his shoulders hunched, looking at Neville with an undecipherable expression. A moment passed, Harry's screams grew louder – Neville thought, _now! Go for it now!_ – and then Wormtail's eyes flickered down at the wand and he gave it a swift nudge with his foot.

The wand rolled silently across the floor towards Neville. In one movement, he grabbed it and was on his feet, just as the motion caught Voldemort's eye over Bellatrix's shoulder, and he finally turned his attention to Neville.

"_Out of the way, Bella!_" he commanded, raising his wand. Bellatrix, her eyes narrowed madly as she watched Harry twitching, reacted slowly. It was only as she realised her master was pointing his wand at her that she broke the curse and ducked out of the way.

Neville was suddenly aware that if he didn't cast a spell, he was going to die, and the first one that came to his head was "_Stupefy!"_

At that exact moment, Voldemort's voice cracked across the room like a bolt of lightning, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Two jets of light met in mid air. There was a deep whine and a flash of light. As the jets collided they splintered and burst outwards in a thousand shards that were neither red nor green but pure, undulating threads of gold. Neville felt his hand seize up as his wand began to vibrate so that he could not have released it even if he had wished. The sudden over-abundance of light blinded him for a moment, and as the spots dancing across his retina faded he saw that his wand was linked to Voldemort's by a deep gold beam that arched across the space between them and settled as a cage of light glistening around them.

With a number of spluttering cracks, all the magical lamps in the room went out. Now the only illumination came from the twisted, wire-taught gold threads.

Dimly, Neville could hear Bellatrix screaming, "_Master!_" But Voldemort did not seem to register her voice, his long white fingers clutching his own wand with a rigidity that betrayed his own ignorance of what was happening. At his feet, Harry was lying on his side, staring up at the web of light above his head with his mouth open in astonishment, the colour flashing off his glasses, his face and hands dyed white-gold by the light.

And then an unearthly sound broke in tumultuous waves across the dome of light, a sound that filled Neville with hope though he had never heard it before, and he knew at once: _Phoenix Song…_

"Do nothing! I will handle it!" Voldemort roared at Bellatrix, who was trying to drag Malfoy to his feet – the latter seemed to have passed out. Wormtail was invisible in the shadows, but surely, Neville thought, the rest of the Death Eaters could hear that ringing song and would come to investigate…or was the song only in his head?

"Neville," The voice was so quiet Neville thought Harry might have said his name several times before Neville even heard him. The black-haired boy was trying to get to his feet but it looked as if something huge and invisible was pressing down on him. "Neville, I don't know what you did but – hold on –"

"I am…!" Neville tried to shout, but the words seemed to be no more than a whisper by the time they reached his ears, and suddenly it was easier said than done. His wand was vibrating so hard it felt red-hot and it took all his willpower not to drop it. The rod-straight beam was changing – beads of light were sliding up and down it – moving towards Neville's wand and making the vibrations grew worse.

Neville thought his arms had been shaken to pieces. He couldn't hold the wand steady – at any moment it would waver too far and the connection would break –

"_Hold on!_" Harry yelled, sounding a million miles away. He was on his feet, cupping his hands to his eyes to block out the glare of the light.

"_I will!_" Neville answered as loud as he could, and he knew right then that that was a promise he was making, _I will not break the connection_, and now it was avowed he had to keep it, no matter what. The beads of light were sliding closer and he felt as if his feet were slipping out from under him. He knew that if those beads touched his wand it would be too much, the wood under his fingers would surely shatter, and he centred all his concentration on forcing those beads away, down towards Voldemort's end of the thread.

Harry was standing in front of Voldemort, and his robes and hair were billowing back as if in a high wind. For the briefest moment the boy looked back at Neville, and then he reached out his hand and hovered it above the golden thread emerging from the tip of the wand at the far end.

"Get away!" Voldemort's voice came dimly through the fog that seemed to have filled Neville's ears. "Get back or I will kill you…!"

And then – recalling it later, Neville could never quite understand how it happened – Harry stepped into the path of the thread and suddenly it was piercing him like the wake of an arrow passing through his stomach. His hands were raised, his face turned away as if from the heat of a raging fire, and he was clutching with one hand at Voldemort's shoulder and with the other at that snake-like face. Voldemort leaned away as far as he could, trying to avoid that small, pale hand and hold the connection at the same time, but Harry's fingers grasped at the red eyes and bald forehead, as Neville stared, horrified, and Bellatrix screamed somewhere on the other side of the cage of light…

"_Now, Neville!_" Harry shouted.

It took all his effort, and at the same time, was total release from effort – Neville pulled his wand upwards and with a screech like warping gears the light vanished.

For a moment, pitch blackness, and Bellatrix's sobs.

Then – it was more than before, and it wasn't gold – it was white – a blast of white light so powerful Neville felt as if it had physically blown him off his feet. He crouched down, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow to protect his eyes, and he could still see that light blowing towards him, blinding him, his wand hanging loose in his hand and one knee pressed down so hard to the floor that he could feel a knot in the smooth wood…

The light began to fade. Neville kept his eyes closed for as long as he dared, and then he lowered his arm. The magical lamps were dead husks of shattered glass. The moonlight was as dim and washed-out as the faintest star compared to the light that had filled the ballroom. The double-doors hung open, Malfoy fallen beside them and lying still, though Neville thought he might still be able to hear his rasping breath. Lit up by a strip of light coming through the window, Bellatrix was curled over her knees, her body shaking with sobs. There was no sign of Wormtail.

Neville turned his head back to where, a few moments ago, Voldemort had stood. The strips of light from the window did not fall across that place, but in the shadows Neville thought he saw a shapeless pile of black. He forced himself to stand up and walk towards it, holding his wand above his head.

"Murderer!" Screamed a hysterical voice. Neville spun around and found himself facing Bellatrix, her face twisted into something quite beyond human rage, her tips twitching and white froth dribbling from the corner of her mouth. "Where is he? My lord? He'll come back – and I – I will be there beside him – he will love me for killing you…!"

Neville almost panicked, but without even thinking it through he said in a voice he barely knew as his own, "He's dead, and you will be next if you don't flee now."

Bellatrix screeched and opened her mouth to cast a curse. Neville jabbed his wand at the thin air and the gesture silenced her. She glanced once at the place where her master had stood and then broke into a sprint towards the door of the ballroom. Her footsteps could be heard long after she was lost from sight, for the rest of the house seemed deathly quiet.

Neville whispered, _"Lumos_," and then forced himself to calmly walk the last five metres to where the shapeless mound of black lay, terrified of what would be there. His wandlight fell across crumpled black robes, a pair of pale ankles and feet with toes curled up as if in restless sleep. Neville knelt, grabbed what he thought was probably a shoulder and rolled Harry on to his back.

The boy's glasses lay a little way away, both lenses shattered. His green eyes stared at the ceiling without focusing on it. Neville felt his throat constrict, _he's dead!_ his brain screamed, and then he saw the faintest twitch of the nostrils, the half-open lips part a little further as Harry took a breath, and the teenage Adam's apple roll as he swallowed.

Neville was glad he had already sat down as a wave of dizzy relief washed over him. He raised his wand higher, searching for the red-robed body of Voldemort and fearing to see nothing – perhaps he had Apparated – perhaps he had escaped – but at least they were safe, he was gone, Harry was alive and they could leave now while no one was watching…

There was no corpse. Only a long pile of tar-black ash twisting along the ground, like the charred carcass of a snake thrown into a fire, all that was left of Voldemort's first and final body.

-----------------------------------

TBC


	21. Lupin and Snape

A/N: One chapter left. I don't know whether to cry or celebrate. Thank you guys so much for the long reviews last chapter. Onwards!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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The sun dallied low on the horizon, casting a soft pink light over the roofs of Little Hangleton. From its daytime perch in the loft of the whitewashed parish, a gull squawked across the town square and took flight for the night. The streets below were still and silent, and the gull kept its bright eyes focused on the forest beyond. It swooped lazily over the road and the village behind receded out of sight as it spied the abandoned human hut where it had made its nest. Blinking as it measured up the wind, the gull tipped its wings and circled around the hut, descending steadily towards the treetops.

Movement above caught the gull's eye and the backdraft of something huge and un-bird-like tossed it crazily in mid-air. It spiralled over, pulling its wings in, and then the gull had half a second to react before an enormous, sky-coloured motorbike tyre slammed into it. Needless to say, even its finest instincts were not prepared for this.

"What was that?" Maud shrieked as a cloud of white feathers washed past her.

"We hit a bird!" Sirius shouted, turning the motorbike towards the ground.

Maud gave another ear-splitting wail as they tipped downwards and her stomach began to crawl desperately towards her mouth. "We're falling…!" she screamed.

"No, we're _landing_," he replied at the top of his voice, but the wind roaring past them snatched his words away to join the feathers.

Maud did not stop screaming until they hit the ground with an ungainly thud. Sirius let the engine of the bike die and then pried Maud's fingers from around his waist. The Disillusionment charm that had kept them hidden broke at last and they both returned to their normal level of visibility. Maud toppled sideways off the bike and onto the lumpy ground. She scrambled to her feet, and probably it was not only the residue of the Disillusionment that made her face as green as the grass that grew up past her ankles.

"Wh-what're we doing here?" she murmured, holding her hand over her stomach and making a queasy face. They were standing in a small clearing overlooked by thick-branched trees. A little way away in the shade of several twisted hawthorns leaned a ramshackle hut with barely a roof-tile to its name. Moss seemed to be holding its foundations together and its door was hanging open, the hinges black with rust.

Sirius grabbed her arm above the shoulder and marched Maud towards the hut. "We've run out of time. The sun's going down and in half an hour you'll be even more hairy and murderous than you already are. We saw the village from the air – describe to me the house where Harry is and I'll go the rest of the way myself. _You_ have to stay here."

"Let me go! I want to come! Don't leave me!" Maud wriggled weakly in his grasp, still too ill from their mad flight to put up much of a struggle.

"No," Sirius shoved her in through the door of the hut and ducked in after her, wrenching the door shut behind him. There was enough light coming through the holes in the roof to see clearly by but every surface within the hut was covered in such a thick layer of dirt it did not look as if it had ever been occupied by people. Maud collapsed into what might have been a chair in a former life.

"Greyback will be looking for me," she sniffed, watching with glittering eyes as Sirius began to circle the hut, tapping curiously at the chimney. "What if he smells me out?"

"What? With a whole village of Muggles half a mile away?" Sirius said pointedly, poking the sturdiest bricks of the chimney with his wand. "Maud, he's going to be as much a wolf as you. The Death Eaters won't let him on the loose."

She did not argue this. "What are you doing?" she asked gruffly.

"Looking for somewhere to put the chains," he answered. "You don't think I can let you run round by yourself with a full moon out, do you?"

Her jaw fell open and the green tinge of her cheeks paled to white. She leaped to her feet, disturbing a cloud of dust as she did so. "Don't you come near me!"

"Maud," Sirius began with as much patience as he could muster. He still wanted to shake her whenever he looked at her and thought of what she had done to Lupin. "This is for _your_ safety as well as everyone else's. There could be wizards in that village tonight as well as muggles."

Maud whimpered as he began to conjure thick silver manacles out of thin air. Her voice diminished into a squeak. "I…I'm scared of magic, you know…it always…always used to make me cry. Greyback never did magic in front of me if he could help it, but R-Remus never understood why I was so upset all the time…"

Sirius looked up at her and the terror cast on her face was real. She really _was_ scared of magic! He thought of how Maud had reacted around all the Order members when she had first been brought to Grimmauld place and he suddenly understood how frightened she must have been every moment of living around wizards. It was as if someone had suddenly shone a spotlight on the trembling, muddy creature in front of him. They'd all treated Maud with such derision and disgust and she had been so ill mannered in return – and all the time, she must have been _miserable_, a prisoner surrounded by that which she dreaded.

But they were running out of time – he could feel sorry for Maud later. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to stand it for one night," he said, setting the ends of the chains into the lowest bricks of the chimney with a flick of his wand.

"I hate you!" Maud moaned. "You don't give a _sneeze_ about whether I live until morning! I want to leave, _now!_"

She made a dash for the door and Sirius grabbed her wrist and snapped the first manacle on. Maud howled and tugged furiously at it, to no avail. She was caught tight. She couldn't escape when Sirius took a hold of her other wrist and chained that one as well, though she did try to take a bite out of the back of his hand during the melee.

Sirius retreated to the door again and kicked it open while Maud drew towards the shadows in the most intact corner of the shack, dragging her chains across the floor. Crouched in the dirt with her bare ankles and the gaping chimney-mouth not far away, she looked like some ugly Cinderella character awaiting a fairy godmother that would never come.

"Where's the house I'm looking for?" he asked. The setting sun made a rectangle of light on the far wall of the shack.

Maud sniffed and said reluctantly, "It's the big one on the far hill."

He paused, then, a little awkwardly, "Thank you."

"You'll come back?" her voice, filled with self-pity, floated over to him.

"After dawn," Sirius promised, and dragged the ancient door shut. He looked over at his bike sitting peaceably in the fading sunlight and thought briefly about flying it the rest of the way. But dropping out of the sky on a motorbike in the middle of a Muggle village would be just as dangerous as landing it on the roof of a Death Eater infested mansion. He would have to keep his presence unknown and walk the rest of the way.

Regretfully he dragged the bike a little into the trees, lay it down beside a particularly contorted oak and cast another Disillusionment charm. From the shack behind him, Maud's beady eyes watched him through the tiny window. Sirius spied the remnants of a path winding away into the trees, focused on the picture of his godson on his mind, and set off for Little Hangleton.

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"Harry."

Green eyes stared blankly at the high-beamed ceiling. Harry's lips moved soundlessly and Neville shook his shoulder harder. His joyous relief was ebbing. Ten minutes had gone past since that blinding white light had filled the room and Voldemort had disappeared, and Harry had yet to speak or make any response.

"_Harry!_"

With exasperating slowness, Harry's eyes left the ceiling and focused on Neville's face.

"Are things…well?" he asked in a hoarse voice, touching his head gingerly and making a pained face.

"Yeah," Neville said with a smile. "Things are good. But we've got to get out. That Bellatrix woman took off, I couldn't stop her – she'll get the rest of the Death Eaters and come back for us…"

"Alright," Harry said, closing his eyes and rolling over onto his side sluggishly. It took Neville an age to convince him to get to his feet, and even once he was upright it seemed his balance was having a break from duties. Neville had to hang on to Harry's arm just to keep him from flopping back onto his face, and with his glasses smashed the boy was practically blind as well. Neville regretfully put the ruined glasses in his pocket, hoping he might be able to remember the spell to repair them later.

"Ron," Harry said groggily, clutching his head. "What'd we drink last night? Where're we going?"

Neville was sidestepping the unconscious Malfoy lying beside the door and slipping out into the darkened hall beyond. Here he paused, trying to figure out whether to light his wand or not. It would give them away in an instant if there were anyone about, but on the other hand, this was no time to be playing blind man's bluff.

It took Neville a moment to register what Harry had said. He frowned when he realised what Harry had called him. "I'm not Ron," he said absent-mindedly. "I'm Neville – remember?"

"Hermione said," Harry took a breath and closed his eyes tightly again as if he was struggling with a pain in his stomach. "Hermione said we weren't to go to the kitchens except at night…someone might see me …"

"It's night," Neville said, looking around as Hermione's name entered the conversation but still completely lost as to what Harry was talking about. His companion must have hit his head during the fight, but there was no time to sit down and sort his brains out just now. "Do you know this house? Where's the nearest door?"

"Kitchen," Harry said. Whether this was a direction or whether Harry still thought he was talking to Ron, Neville couldn't be sure. He decided he would have to take a chance on it being the former. Feeling his wand roll in his sweaty hand, he took a firm hold of Harry's wrist and hurried down the dark corridor of the mansion, his ears pricked for the faintest sound. His heart was drumming a staccato against his ribs.

"Where now?" Neville whispered as they met a junction in the corridor. Harry raised his hand, pointed to the left passageway and Neville pulled them both down it.

They came out beside a carpeted flight of stairs, moonlight trickling through the rippled window high on the wall at the end of the passage. There were a number of doorways along this hallway, all closed and unmarked. Neville was starting to feel ill from anticipation. Surely Bellatrix should have roused _someone_ by now?

Almost as soon as he thought it, there was a bang, the sound of raised voices and several pairs of feet from the floor above them.

Neville felt his stomach try to crawl into his windpipe and hide. "Harry," he nudged the boy. "Quick. Where now?"

Harry shook his head, rubbing the scars on his cheeks. "When's Remus coming back to London to see us?" he asked, without lowering his voice. Neville winced at the volume and tried to hush him but it was as if Harry couldn't even hear him. "He said he was going to teach me about…about Grindylows…" Harry said tonelessly, suddenly leaning drunkenly against the wall so that Neville, who was still holding his arm, nearly overbalanced.

"He's not here! Where do we go?" Neville hissed, glancing up the stairway.

There was a light growing at the top.

Neville grabbed both of Harry's elbows and propelled him along the corridor. He pulled open the nearest, plainest door he could see and pushed Harry inside, squeezing in after and dragging the door shut as quietly as he could. He could hear thumping footsteps coming down the stairs as he tried to keep Harry from falling over and not bump into the wall the same time. His wand got wedged against the handle of the door and fell out of his grasp. In the blackness he knelt, his hands scrambling across a cool concrete floor until they met the thin wooden rod. He felt for the keyhole as a glow welled up in it, casting a thin searchlight beam as someone on the other side shone their lit wand on the door.

"Sirius," Harry mumbled. "I don't want to have to move again…I've only just got settled at this school…please, can't we just stay here for once…"

Neville wanted to tell him to shut up but he was trying to hold his breath along with the handle of the door as the light on the other side grew brighter. He heard a rapid thumping from behind him but it was too dark to see what it was, and his ears were straining to make out the speech of the Death Eaters in the corridor outside.

"Check all the doors," a harsh voice called to someone on the far side. Neville felt the staccato beat in his ribcage miss a beat and start double-speed to make up for it. The handle of the door jumped against his palm as someone unseen took a hold of it on the far side.

"Come on, they're not going to be in there – you two, get to the hall and find Lucius – Bellatrix, follow me, they might've already left the house –"

The pressure of the handle loosened. Neville watched the wand-light dim in the keyhole and go out. He let his lungs deflate from relief and slid down the wall. Once the footsteps receded he lit his own wand and turned to look at Harry.

Harry was gone. Neville stumbled to his feet and raised his wand, staring down a cramped flight of stairs. Harry was the bottom, lying in a crumpled heap of black robes with his arms thrown out. Neville said a word that Ron used a lot and took the stairs three at the time, running one hand along the wall because there was no railing.

Harry's eyes were half-closed but Neville could not see blood or unnatural angles on his limbs.

"Hey," he croaked, wanting to shake the boy but scared to hurt him if something _was_ broken. "You alright? How'd you…?"

Harry groaned and curled up on his side. "Mum," he said plaintively, in a tiny voice. "I hurt my ankle. I'm sorry…I was playing with Dad's broomstick…"

Neville was only just beginning to understand that his companion really had no idea where he was or what was going on. "Harry, _wake up!_" he said frantically, trying to pull the boy to his feet. Harry didn't seem able to support his own weight, and he was holding his left leg awkwardly. Neville pulled one of the boy's arms around his shoulders and heaved him upright.

As he pulled Harry up, the light from his wand fell across the room they were in. A tiny window was set deep into one wall, and judging by the grass that was growing through the bars it was at ground level, which put them underground in a cellar of some kind. The walls were mouldering plaster and the floor foot-worn blocks of stone. A chair sat empty in the weak light coming through the window, and in the far corner of the room was a small, ragged mound like a pile of dirty washing.

Neville froze, trying to spot any movement. There was no doubt the mound was a body. "Who're you?" Neville called, trying to keep his voice even.

The body didn't move or answer. Still supporting most of Harry's weight, Neville shuffled closer, holding his wand as far out as possible to make out the features of the body. All he could see was the scraps of torn and filthy robes and a pile of hair where a head might have been. The light etched out the shape of them in hard shadowed edges.

And Neville suddenly recognised the bruised and weary face half-turned away from the cold stone of the floor. The huddled, filthy bundle lying on the floor was – impossibly, unbelievably – Professor Lupin. His wrists were so thin they looked as if the slightest pressure would snap them, and his hair seemed greyer than ever, though that might have been due to dust. Neville could not tell if he was alive.

He bent, dropping onto one knee. Harry slid out of his grasp and sat down on the stone floor, swaying and looking more drunk than ever. He was staring over Neville's head, his lips moving, but no sound coming out. His eyes were glazed, now, as if his condition was deteriorating. Neville wasn't paying attention to Harry, but to the defeated man lying before him.

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched Professor Lupin's cheek. It was warm: alive. Neville took the man's shoulder and shook him gently.

"Professor?" Neville shook him harder. Lupin did not stir. "Professor Lupin? Wake up, Professor – please wake up, we have to get out of here."

He wondered if Lupin was breathing, and managed to roll him over so that he was lying on his back. Now he could see the faint rise and fall of Lupin's chest beneath the thin robes that he was wearing. But still, Lupin did not open his eyes.

"Professor, please!" Neville shook Lupin as hard as he could, wanted to slap him, but some taboo against striking a teacher, so pointless in this situation, held him back. Harry shuddered and began to topple sideways: Neville had to grab him and pull him upright to keep him from falling over

Neville thought, _Professor Lupin looks so thin. Maybe I could lift him up_, but he knew that would mean leaving Harry behind, because he simply could not manage the two of them on his own. His voice came in a croak now. "Please wake up, Professor! I can't…I can't carry you both. I'm not strong enough…please wake up, oh, please…" He bit down on his lip in frustration. Lupin looked as if he might be in a worse condition, but Neville knew he could not carry his teacher's dead weight very far. Did he abandon Lupin here, possible dying, or leave Harry instead, and come back for him later? Surely Harry was more important, but Lupin might be in greater need. And Neville couldn't think, he couldn't bear to leave one of them behind in this awful, cold place.

A lump had stuck in his throat: he realised he was beginning to cry. It was so unfair, everything that had happened, and now they had done what no one would have believed and they still weren't safe, they were still cold and sick and dying…tears rolled down Neville's cheeks. He wanted to be home, he wanted to be in the Gryffindor common room, where it was warm and full of laughter, where he could do ordinary things like homework and talk about frightening things like Voldemort with Hermione and Ron while they were wrapped up snug and safe. He'd give anything for all this to be over.

"Am I interrupting, Longbottom?"

Neville was on his feet in a flash, spinning around, his wand raised and ready to blow to bits anything that came near him. A thin, black-cloaked figure stood behind him, the hood drawn back: and here was another impossible sight. It was Professor Snape, his greasy hair hanging lank over his eyes, his skin, if possible, even paler than usual. He was limping a little as he stepped forward, but his sneer was as cold as ever.

"Stay back!" Neville hissed. "You – you're working for You-Know-Who, aren't you? Don't you come any closer – I'm warning you!"

"Though I am certain you could impress me mightily with your talents with bat-bogey hexes or something equally disgusting, I assure you it would be a waste of both our time and energies," Professor Snape replied. "Lower your wand, Longbottom, I am not here to hurt you."

"I don't believe you," Neville panted, a wild fury rising in him. Snape was wearing the same cloaks as the Death Eaters had worn: of course, he must be a spy, he had probably organised Neville's kidnapping himself.

"No? I could have knocked you out at any time in the last two minutes, while you were sitting there _weeping_," Snape said, enunciating the last word rather cruelly.

Neville brushed his sleeve over his eyes, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. Of all the stupid things that could have happened at that moment, being caught crying by Professor Snape was not the worst. But it still felt humiliating. Professor Snape, however, did not pursue this line of taunting. He brushed past Neville and knelt in front of Professor Lupin with a look of cool disdain upon his face. Neville followed him with his wand and then reluctantly lowered it and went to stand beside him.

"I couldn't wake him up," he said weakly, then wished he hadn't. He hated showing weakness to Professor Snape. But the potions master simply touched Lupin's shoulder lightly, with the manner of someone touching a dead animal that was beginning to attract flies.

"He's not coming round any time soon. I don't fancy trying any muggle healing techniques in this hole, so we had better get out of here before he ups and dies on us."

Neville squeaked, "He's going to _die?_"

"Not if you stop chattering and start moving," Snape said. He bent and looped his arms under Lupin's chest, lifting him swiftly with strength that Snape's thinness belied.

"Why don't you just use magic to lift him?" Neville asked incredulously. Snape shot him a needling glower.

"As you somehow failed to notice, Longbottom, I have been deprived of my wand," he said, with the faintest hint of bitterness. He gathered Lupin up, somehow managing to bundle all of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher into his arms. Then he glanced at Harry, who was still sitting and staring at some distant point on the wall, "You bring the boy, I'll carry the werewolf. Oh, excuse me, _ex-_werewolf," he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he looked down at Lupin.

Neville, who really did not know what on earth Snape was talking about now but was horrified at the thought letting Professor Lupin die when they were so close to safety, thrust the wand at the potions Professor. "Take mine! You can heal him, can't you?"

Snape considered the proffered wand for a moment then wrinkled the bridge of his beaky nose. "Hold onto your wand, Longbottom. I'm not an expert in healing spells, and in Lupin's condition," he glanced away, "I might only make things worse. I assure you if I want your wand I will ask for it. Now come _on_, we do not have time to dither."

Neville decided it would be best to just do as he was told for the moment. With some effort, he managed to get Harry back on his feet and put the boy's arm around his shoulders once more. Harry was limp as a rag-doll now, and his breath was coming faintly and irregularly, but his legs still moved in a stumbling kind of walk when Neville urged him to.

"I'm not going," Harry mumbled as he managed a few steps. "Mrs Cole can do what she likes…I ain't going anywhere and if Mrs Cole doesn't like it…" his last words faded into unintelligible syllables.

"Don't worry, Harry, no one's going to make you do anything," Neville said as reassuringly as he could.

With some misgiving, and ready for the first sign of treachery, he followed Professor Snape towards the doorway and up the thin staircase beyond.

------------------------------------------

They left the grim recesses of the house by way of the door in the kitchen and met no resistance in the garden. The ghostly roses and spreading silver lawns seemed to be frozen in a state of morose beauty. Neville looked through the trees and saw in the distance a small, lightless cottage tucked away in the corner of the estate. He wondered briefly who it belonged to.

Snape was getting ahead of him, despite the fact that he was lugging Professor Lupin over his shoulder. Neville adjusted Harry's weight against him and hurried to catch up. Harry had stopped speaking now, and his head lolled with each step.

"What were you doing in that house if you're not a Death Eater?" Neville demanded as he drew level with Snape.

The potions Professor did not answer for a moment, but a furrow appeared on his brow. "I will tell you the truth, Longbottom, but it is only to keep you from doing something foolish because you mistakenly believe I am your enemy," he paused after this disclaimer. "I…_was_ a Death Eater, and a spy for Albus Dumbledore," he continued icily. "Until tonight. Evidently my connection to the Headmaster was discovered some time ago, but the Dark Lord waited until he could trap me here before he revealed my dual loyalties to the others and told them they were to kill me."

"Then why didn't they?" Neville asked at once.

"They were _told_ to take their time," Snape snapped. He suddenly paused and his steps faltered.

"What is it?" Neville whispered.

"The gate's open," Snape said calmly. He sauntered ahead – though sauntering was a difficult thing to do with a man slung over your shoulder – and Neville dragged Harry along behind as the two arms of a high stone wall closed around them. A thick-barred iron gate linked the two arms, but it stood wide open.

"How were you planning to get out if they were _closed_?" Neville asked as Snape sped up and they passed between the gates at a swift shamble.

"There are ways, Longbottom, though doubtlessly _you_ would have been trapped here until the muggles showed up," Snape replied. "The opening of the gates only disturbs me because a rare few had access to their key. Move faster, boy, I want to put some distance between us and the house."

Neville did not know how long they walked along the winding gravel path Snape took. It was probably no more than ten or twenty minutes, but Harry grew heavier with each step and Neville was only just beginning to realise how exhausted he was. He thought he was going to fall asleep on his feet and it took all his willpower just to keep his eyes on the hunched black back of Professor Snape.

The trees grew close in over the road, frozen like cut-out shadows in the still early-morning air. The faintest glow was beginning to show on the east horizon, but the sun would not rise for at least another hour. Just when Neville thought he could not take another step Snape slowed and turned off the road to where the roots of a low-branched oak made a grassy mound on the edge of the gravel. He lowered Professor Lupin to the ground and perched himself on the roots, resting his hands on his knees. Neville realised he was breathing heavily, though he could not decide if the pained expression on his face was due to actual discomfort or was simply the look Snape always wore.

Neville sat Harry down against the tree. The black-haired boy slumped against the trunk with his hands in his lap and his eyes half-closed.

"Harry," Neville touched the boy's shoulder. "You still there?"

There was no response.

Neville swallowed the lump in his throat. Harry was in a state of shock, that was all. He wasn't hurt. To distract himself he looked over and saw that Snape had pulled up one corner of his robes and was inspecting a thickly swollen ankle beneath dark purple bruises. After a moment of tenderly jabbing the bruises with his finger, the potions master held out his hand to Neville.

"Your wand," he said simply.

Neville handed it over reluctantly, but Snape didn't attack him, just touched the bruise with the tip and muttered something. The swelling subsided a little but it still looked acutely painful. Next, Snape bent over Lupin and waved the wand over his face a few times. A light glinted at the tip of the wand but Lupin didn't stir.

Snape straightened up and shot Neville a suspicious glare. "Start talking, Longbottom. I don't believe for a second what Bellatrix was babbling about, but _something_ certainly happened to make the rest of the Death Eaters scatter. Care to explain?"

It was as if he was merely asking what was Neville's excuse for today's failed concoction in potions class. Neville hesitated as he tried to get his words straight.

"He's dead," he said finally and added, as if testing his claim, "Voldemort."

Snape flinched and his fist closed around Neville's wand. "You're lying," he said assuredly. "Or mistaken. The Dark Lord is far beyond the reach of death, boy. The fact that Potter here is still alive is a fair indicator of that," he gestured at Harry, still catatonic and staring at the distant full moon. "It would take his death and the death of many others to come close to destroying him. Now tell me what really happened."

" I don't know," Neville leant his head on his knees. "I don't know what happened. We were fighting… our wands got… tangled somehow. Harry attacked him and there was a flash of light and when I reached him, there was only ash where Voldemort had been."

"Then you have no proof he is dead. As always, you rush to inexplicable conclusions, Longbottom," Snape said coolly, turning away.

"Then why does Bellatrix agree with me?" Neville said.

He saw Snape tense and knew he had hit a mark. The professor hissed, "Bellatrix is…hasty."

"And _you_?" Neville asked, "How did you get away from the Death Eaters? I thought they were trying to kill you." He felt a sudden rush of daring that he dared speak so openly to Snape. He could barely believe his Potions professor was sitting here on the edge of a muggle village, proclaiming himself a Death Eater and talking about the fall of the Dark Lord. And even after all that had happened, Snape still _scared_ him.

"I do not need to prove my allegiances to you, Longbottom," Snape replied with a whip-crack in his voice.

"I'm not asking you to. I just want to know what happened," Neville said firmly.

A muscle Snape's cheek twitched but after a moment he began to speak. "They believed me stunned when Bellatrix arrived, screaming nonsense about you and the Dark Lord. Why they believed her I know not, but certainly most of them fled at once and the few that remained left in search of you."

"Why didn't you just run away?"

"_Your_ shallow view of me may be severe, Longbottom, but I am not heartless. I made my way down the basement because I knew Professor Lupin was alive somewhere in the house-"

"What? Then why didn't you tell someone?"

"Because I only learned about it tonight!" Snape snarled. "And even if I _had_ gained the information earlier, there were _more important_ things going on in that house than the capture of one shabby ex-werewolf," Snape nudged Lupin's ribs with his toe. "There are plots beyond your short-sighted ken that even I would have hesitated to presume if it were not for what I heard tonight."

Neville didn't answer this. He stared at Professor Lupin's starved face and tried to replay the previous hours in his head in order to make sense of them. But no matter how many times he drew out that moment when Harry had stepped through the threads of golden light connecting the wands and reached out to Voldemort , Neville still could not understand what had taken place. He was completely certain that the twisted pile of ash on the ground had been all that remained of the Dark Lord – but _how_? What had _happened?_

"Where are we going now?" he asked, to give his tired brain a rest. Now that they had stopped moving the cold of the night air was beginning to spread through his limbs.

Snape turned his face to peer down the road. "There's a village. I know a number that we can enter into any muggle phone line to contact the Auror headquarters at the Ministry. Dumbledore has agents among the Aurors who will alert the Headmaster and come to pick us up. If I weren't here, Longbottom, you would probably be dead already," he added with what might have been a hint of disappointment.

Neville wrapped his arms around his knees and looked back up the road the way they had come. Early morning mist was beginning to permeate through the trees, and the cold was making Neville shiver. "Look at all that fog," he mused aloud to himself.

The silence reigned for a moment more, than Snape said in a sharp voice. "Get up. Get the boy. We have to start moving."

Neville glanced at the professor and saw that his face was tensed and lines had appeared on his brow. He was hauling Lupin up again, still clutching Neville's wand in one hand. Neville pushed himself to his feet but it took more effort to get Harry up. Snape had already started down the road.

"Slow down," Neville called in a hoarse voice. Harry's legs were moving but Neville was the one taking all of his weight.

"_Hurry_, Longbottom!" Snape's voice floated back to him. It sounded almost frightened.

Neville doubled his stride and drew even with the limping Snape. "What is it?" he asked between pants.

Snape glanced over his shoulder and said, as if to himself, "Nott said he summoned _three_ Dementors…only three…not an army…"

Neville had never seen a Dementor before. He turned his head to look back, nearly dropping Harry as he did so, but there was only a thin layer of mist creeping along the road behind them. Then, deeper in the trees, there was movement and the shape of an immensely tall, dark shadow – no, two – no, six…

Their pace quickened but even Snape was stumbling and skidding on the loose stones now. Neville couldn't keep up with the professor and his legs were growing leaden. It felt as if thin, prickly snow was building up in his chest, a cold that he couldn't be rid of.

Ahead they came around a bend in the path and Neville felt as if someone had slapped him in the face.

A hundred metres down the road their way was blocked by a crowd of tall, swaying black figures who floated inches above the ground, silent except for a dull rattling that breached the space between them and sent shivers down Neville's spine. In his arms, Harry stirred and raised his head, taking his weight on his own feet. Neville barely noticed, but Snape did as he turned and raised the wand in his hand.

"Potter," the professor snarled. "It's Potter that's drawing them, calling them…!"

Neville stumbled around, but the hooded figures were behind them as well, closing in swiftly and steadily. "_Run_ you stupid boy! Follow me!" Snape yelled, pointing the wand at the Dementors behind them. Something silver and shapeless blossomed from the tip of the wand and hung like a thin veil between them and the cloaked figures. Neville did not take a closer look at it, but gripped the arm of the now-upright Harry and stumbled after Snape, who was running straight at the Dementors down the road, aiming Neville's wand at them.

With a jerk, Neville's floundering feet caught on what seemed to be a large, soft rock and his momentum carried him forward until the ground rose up to stop him. He threw out his hand and landed hard on his face, skidding a few inches on the gravel and feeling the skin ripped off his palm. He scrambled to get up again, but had stop to help Harry who had fallen as well and was lying indifferently on the road.

The Dementors behind them were closing in, Snape was somewhere ahead and as Neville bent to haul Harry to his feet he saw what it was he had tripped on.

It was the body of an old man in rough working clothes stretched across the path, his face looking mildly surprised. His eyes were open and he was clearly dead, as cold as the stones upon which he rested. Neville tore his eyes away from the grim sight to lever Harry up.

"Dad," Harry said, looking at Neville with expression of desperate longing. "Frank's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes, now Harry please we have to _run-_"

Neville turned to step over the body on the road and found that there were Dementors hovering right in front of them. The creatures were everywhere, a noose of empty black cloaks tightening around them. Distantly he heard Snape yelling hoarsely but he couldn't tell where the sound was coming from, he couldn't even remember in which direction the path was. The rattling noise surrounded them on all sides and Neville realised it was the breath of the fluttering, fetid creatures hemming them in.

The cold reached his heart and he heard a ringing in his ears. He and Harry were standing back-to-back, standing over the old man's body. Neville clutched his companion's wrist as, in some forgotten corner of his brain, voices began to rise.

"Mum," Harry sobbed aloud. "Run, Mum, he's going to kill you…"

The Dementors were only a few metres away now, forming a circle around the two boys. Here and there Neville glimpsed a scabby, twisted hand darting under the ragged black robes. His legs were shaking so much they couldn't hold him up, and only Harry's support kept him from sliding to the ground. There were voices in his ears; familiar voices raised in panic…his parents, the last time he had heard them… he was listening to his parents die all over again…

"Sirius," Harry whispered. "Help me."

Neville's voice was stuck in his throat. He wanted to call for help but there was no one there. Even Snape's yells had faded – or had the voices of Neville's parents blocked him out? – and the rattling was so loud it was like relentless stones grinding against their brains.

"Sirius!" Harry's voice grew louder. "_Sirius!_" He was shouting now, cutting through the blurry cries of Frank and Alice Longbottom that were crowding Neville's ears. _There's no one there,_ Neville wanted to tell him as one of the Dementors swam forward through the air, reaching out a pair of gnarled, rotting hands towards Harry first as if Neville was only an afterthought, brushing against his cheek as it closed in on its prey. _Just let it be over quickly_… Neville thought, _let it not hurt_…

"_SIRIUS!_" Harry bellowed.

And through the rattling, the shouting, the rushing of blood in Neville's hearing came another voice that was not dead, but alive and real and not far away.

"Harry!" The voice shouted. "I'm coming – just close your mouth and _hold on!_"

A light was rising in the east, but it couldn't be the sun. It was too bright and too silver and the Dementors were shying away from it. The hands reaching past Neville drew away and he sucked in a breath of clean air that wasn't tainted with the rotting smell of the hooded monsters. His legs gave way at last and both he and Harry crumpled and sat huddled against each other with the gravel digging into Neville's leg and the body of the old man lying beside them.

Something glistening, white, four-legged and bear-sized barrelled through the crowd of Dementors, scattering them and casting them away with swipes of its huge paws. It circled the two boys, silently roaring at the black-robed creatures, which turned and began to slip away into the mist and the trees. The glowing white creature charged down the road, snapping at the last of the Dementors who were gathering around another pair of figures. Professor Snape, Neville's wand raised defiantly in one trembling hand, was kneeling over Lupin, white-faced but alive.

Neville heard the crunch of gravel under rapid footsteps and looked up to see a tall man dashing down the road towards them, his black hair flying away from his face and his wand clamped in his raised fist. He skidded to a halt in front of Neville, who with a quick glance saw that Harry had sagged to the ground and lay curled beside him. The huge silver animal bounded back towards them and faded into a few twinkling points of light.

"Are you both alright?" the man asked, panting a little. Neville recognised him from the funeral as Sirius Black.

"Yes," Neville said wearily. "I'm alright."

The man didn't seem to hear him. He was kneeling beside Harry, glancing at the full moon caught in the branches of the westward trees and at the face of the boy lying before him. Then, with the greatest of care, Sirius Black lifted Harry up into his arms.

-------------------------------------------

TBC


	22. His Last Refuge

A/N: I know this is, like, um, FOUR WEEKS LATE. I know and I'm real sorry, guys, the whole time I was thinking "mustfinishLost" over and over in my head. There was just so much real life work going on and I was so exhausted. I haven't gotten a proper night's sleep _once_ for the last fortnight. But to make up for the extreme lack of punctuality, this chapter is – um, hang on, let me think – about five times longer than my usual chapters.

Probably more. I'm not kidding, guys, this thing is so friggin' long. Take it in pieces, chew thoroughly, and pause between bites.

Now, let's commence.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Hestia Jones Apparated onto the main street of Little Hangleton in the early hours before dawn. The sky was filled with a sleepy half-light from the setting moon and the rising sun mixing tenderly across the deep blue sky, the yellowish glows dulled by a watery grey mist that was dissipating above the village. For a few moments she glanced left and right down the empty street as if preparing to cross a stream of unseen traffic. Then a voice broke out in the silence.

"Jones! You stupid witch – get over here!"

Hestia looked up to find Sturgis Podmore charging out of a nearby alley like a pink bull clad in wrinkled blue robes. He grabbed her arm and before she could protest, pulled her onto the pavement and down into the small side-lane, darting around parked cars overshadowed by the leaning buildings. A tabby cat leapt off a windowsill and raced away down the gutter, pausing further down the lane to glance back at them with its tail curled around its body before it darted away and out of sight.

"Ouch! Let go, Sturgis – what is it?"

"_Muggles_, Hestia," Sturgis growled, dragging her onwards with a fierce grip on her wrist. "We've had three close calls already – and one memory charm – and we don't want the tally getting any higher!"

"But it's five o'clock in the morning…" Hestia argued, trying to push a yawn back down her throat with her spare hand.

"Don't you think _you_ might wake up if you heard a loud crack outside your bedroom window?" Sturgis replied. They passed under an old brick arch into a small public courtyard. Spruce country houses faced the courtyard, their curtained windows looking like eyes set in sleeping faces. And in contrast to all that sleepy imagery, Emmeline Vance and Minerva McGonagall were striding across the courtyard towards them. Hestia waved to McGonagall, who nodded stiffly in reply.

Emmeline made a dismissing gesture in Sturgis' direction. "Podmore, get back to the road and watch for anyone else arriving – Hestia, did you find Arthur?"

"He'll be here as soon as he's dressed. He was very much asleep when I got to the Burrow so it might take a few minutes," Hestia replied, pulling her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders. The air was filled with a heavy chill.

"Good," McGonagall said in a weary voice. "We need his expertise – you don't know how to work the come-pewter in a muggle post office, by any chance?"

Hestia shook her head. "Arthur's good with computers. I've seen him take them apart. But look – have you found Sirius yet? Have you found anything?"

Emmeline glanced shiftily across the courtyard as if she thought there might be spies poking their heads up out of the flagstones. "There's been no sign of Black yet, Hestia. We don't know if he even got here at all. But we know we're in the right place," she said grimly. "Half an hour ago two of my Aurors caught three Death Eaters in the main street of the village. They were disorientated and pleading for mercy after we disarmed them. And just now we get a message from our scouts on the edge of the village – they found the Lestranges desperately trying to set up a beacon for the rest of the Death Eaters. They're bringing them in now."

Hestia felt her heart give a jolt. "Bellatrix Lestrange? That cold blooded bit-"

"You should get back to wait for Kingsley," McGonagall interrupted, turning to Emmeline. "I'll stay on patrol and alert you when Arthur arrives."

Her face seemed to grow blurry and in the blink of an eye she shrunk down into a long-legged tabby cat. Hestia watched her lithe form disappear under a scrawny rhododendron bush and then hurried to follow Emmeline across the courtyard.

They headed a short way down another street and through the back door of what a sign on the wall proclaimed to be the village post office. The lights of two wands flicked around as they entered. Hestia squinted and found they were standing in the low-ceilinged foyer of the post office, the glow of their wands playing over the striped brown wallpaper. Two Aurors who Hestia knew were loyal to Dumbledore but not actually members of his Order were leaning over the grey box of a computer behind the office desk. They leapt up when the door opened. Emmeline raised her hand in greeting and they lowered their wands.

"Any word from Kingsley and his group?" she asked in her soft, commanding voice.

One of the young wizards spoke up while hammering the keys of the computer. "He's coming in now, sir."

"Good. Have you gotten anything useful out of the captives?"

The young wizard shrugged. "Malfoy just keeps saying he's been under the Imperius curse. He's got a nasty bruise on his throat, sir, but he won't say how he got it. We got sick of talking to them so we stunned them."

"Malfoy?" Hestia asked, her eyes widening. "_Lucius_ Malfoy? But – he's –"

"One of You-Know-Who's highest ranking Death Eaters," Emmeline finished for her. "Something big happened in this village tonight, Hestia. The rest of the Order is searching the whole area for Sirius Black - and anyone else who might be able to tell us what was going on."

No sooner had she finished speaking than there was a bang and a loud shouting from outside. Emmeline waved for the two young Aurors to stay where they were while she and Hestia dashed out into the street, their wands raised.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the head of a curiously assorted group of witches and wizards. Sturgis Podmore and Arthur Weasley, his pyjama bottoms poking out from under his robes, were standing in the midst of the mess looking as if they had walked into the wrong room at a hotel. Edgar Bones and two of Emmeline's Aurors were holding the bound and struggling forms of Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband Rodolphus. Dedalus Diggle and a third Auror were keeping their wands trained on the captives.

Bellatrix was the one shouting. "Let me go! You dogs, you worthless fools – let me go, my master needs me!" Her eyes were rolling and she was throwing her head from side to side so that her long, dark hair became a tangled mane across her face,

"Shut her up before she wakes every Muggle in the village," Emmeline snapped at once. Kingsley nodded and in a moment he had his wand at Bellatrix's throat. She whimpered but fell silent.

"We deserve to die," said a hoarse voice. All eyes turned to the square-jawed Rodolphus Lestrange, who was standing between Edgar Bones and the Auror, his head hanging low like a sick dog. "We are lost. Our Master is dead."

It was as if everyone present had been jolted with a few volts of electricity. Bellatrix began to shout again. "No! You're wrong – I was mistaken – he cannot be! He cannot!"

"Shut up," Kingsley pressed the wand harder against her white neck. His hand was shaking, and that made Hestia shiver in response. She had never seen Kingsley caught off his guard before. Emmeline strode over to Rodolphus but she didn't have to prompt him into talking.

"Bellatrix saw it all," he gasped. "The boy killed him and he turned to dust. Bellatrix saw it all. She came and told us and nearly all the others fled – abandoned him! We hoped they would return if we sent His mark into the sky, but they didn't…"

Rodolphus sighed and sagged forward in his captor's arms.

The Auror who wasn't involved in subduing the Death Eaters was a short, young woman with a stern, humourless face. As Rodolphus finished speaking she said, almost to herself, "Is it true? Could _he_ really be dead?"

Dedalus Diggle made a gulping noise and put his hand on his forehead as if checking for a fever.

"She must be lying," Emmeline Vance said, but her voice had lost its dead certainty. She was standing in front of the defeated Rodolphus, her gaze boring into his hair as if she wished to pry open his head and discover whether his words were the truth. Her green robes gave a weak flutter as a breeze rushed down the lane.

"If they're lying, they're doing a very good job," Edgar Bones said, glancing at Bellatrix, who was staring at the fading stars in the sky and making tiny sobbing noises.

"If it _is_ a lie, why would all five of them allow themselves to be captured?" added one of the Aurors holding Rodolphus.

"Is it possible…?" Arthur Weasley murmured, running his hand through his thinning hair.

"The war is over," the young Auror finished for him in an awestruck whisper. Hestia looked over and saw that she had her face pressed to Sturgis Podmore's shoulder, and he had clasped his arms around her wiry form. Dedalus Diggle dabbed at his eyes with the hem of his cloak.

"Don't be foolish," Emmeline snapped. "There are any number of explanations for what is going on tonight. We have to proceed with caution."

Hestia was not really listening. She stood shock still, suddenly unaware of the cold. She felt as if she was being sucked out of her body and dragged up above the roofs of Little Hangleton to look down at the little cluster of witches and wizards. She could not believe, yet, that Bellatrix was right. It was simply too much to accept. But in some buoyant corner of her brain she was looking at the mismatched group and thinking, _we heard it first – the death of the Dark Lord_! _And we're going to be the ones who spread the news._

As Hestia suddenly realised she was holding her breath and gasped it in, Kingsley was reaching across and to put his hand on Emmeline's elbow and draw her away towards the doorway of the post office where they wouldn't be overheard. "We have to find the house," he said quietly. "The house where all this took place. I don't think it can be in the village or we would know by now. Whether or not the Lestrange couple are telling the truth, Dumbledore told me it was vitally important we find Neville Longbottom and bring him home."

"There is a road leading out of the village," Emmeline replied. "We were going to investigate when we saw the Dark Mark and followed it to the Lestranges. But from the village we could see what looked like a large wall up on the hill. I'd say that is at the top of our list."

Hestia materialised beside them, receiving a nasty glare from Emmeline Vance.

"Let me come with you. I have to find Sirius," she said in a strangled voice. Her face was white.

"We'll go to the house to find him," Kingsley said soothingly. "But you stay here, Hestia. You're not up to a fight."

Her eyes flashed and she yelped, "That's ridiculous!" Then lowered her voice, her hands trembling as she fiddled with her collar. "Kingsley, _please_, let me come. Don't you see? If…if You-Know-Who _is_ dead, then…then so is Harry," she whispered. "And if Harry is dead, I _have_ find Sirius before he does…something stupid…something terrible…"

Kingsley didn't speak for a moment as he considered this. "Alright," he said carefully. "We're moving out now."

---------------------------------------

The mist was thick at the edge of the village, twisting in teasing whirls around the ankles of the four wizards and one witch who moved in swift steps out of the shelter of the nearest houses. Before them, barely visible in the mist, a thin gravel road split away from the main street and vanished into the forest. Kingsley Shacklebolt plunged ahead like a great icebreaker, parting the fog before him. Sturgis Podmore, the two young Aurors from the post office and Hestia Jones followed in his wake.

The mist soaked up the crunching of their footsteps and the huffs of rapid breathing. None of them spoke, simply following the road with their eyes and straining to see some danger approaching through the treacherous fog. It was not long before Kingsley with his long legs found suddenly that he could no longer see the others behind him and he stopped to wait for them catch up.

_The war is over_, someone had said. The words were still turning cartwheels in the back of Kingsley's head. He couldn't even comprehend their meaning yet. But Hestia's quiet conclusion, _Harry is dead…_ that, he could believe. It followed all the rules of this war – sacrifice of the innocents. It made a bitter kind of sense to Kingsley.

He heard the thump of feet on gravel and looked back, expecting to see his companions hurrying out of the streaming mist. But his sharp ears quickly picked up that the sound was coming from _up_ the road.

Kingsley's wand was in his hand in a moment and he brought several spells to the forefront of his mind. The footsteps sounded solitary – one lone Death Eater fleeing his master's ruin? Or just a harmless muggle scared out of his home by flashes of light and strange noises? The outline of a man formed through the wreathing fog. The loping gait looked suddenly familiar to Kingsley.

Sirius Black emerged. He was striding quickly and carrying a sleeping boy on his back, the child's stick-thin arms draped over his strong shoulders. Behind him came a strange, lop-sided figure which materialised into a limping Severus Snape and Neville Longbottom supporting an unconscious Remus Lupin between them. Neville's feet were stumbling but his face was fierce. Snape's was just weary.

The moment was surreal – the strangest travelling companions Kingsley had ever seen.

Sirius was expressionless as he approached Kingsley, who had straightened up and lowered his wand. He glanced at the tall black Auror standing motionless on the road, inclined his head towards him, said, "Hello, Kingsley," and walked on past.

As Neville, Lupin and Snape followed, Snape growled at Kingsley, "I suggest you go back, Shacklebolt, and tell whoever you've got with you to get ready for a battle. Because soon enough I suspect the forty Dementors running around in that forest are going to come hunting."

-----------------------------------------------

Dawn was coming.

Peter Pettigrew was racing the dawn. Scrambling through the weedy, eroded forest. He thought he might have been weeping as well, either that or it was just the scratches on his hands that put the tears in his eyes. He told himself it was just scratches, just as he told himself he wasn't really lost, but he didn't know yet whether either was true.

Then he came out into the clearing, and knew that at least he wasn't lost.

There was the little shack he and his master had visited, months and months ago. It had not changed, except perhaps it might have sunk a little and the trees cast longer shadows over its roof. Peter Pettigrew stumbled through the tall grass towards the broken cottage, thinking and praying that nothing had changed.

--------------------------------------

His master had brought him here, presumably to assist with the spell work, saying, "This house has always carried a piece of my soul, Wormtail. The ring of my grandfather was buried here since before you were born, but not for many years now. I put the ring somewhere else when Dumbledore began sniffing around, but he found it all the same. It is gone now."

"Gone?" Pettigrew had asked, forgetting to say 'master', but Voldemort had not rebuked him.

"Yes, gone, Wormtail. Dumbledore found it and by now he will have destroyed it. Now, you will be wondering why we have come here?"

"Yes, master," Wormtail had mumbled.

"For this," his master had said, and like a cheap muggle conjuring trick he had flicked his wrist and out of his sleeve had flowed a long golden chain with a heavy oval weight on the end of it. A locket – it was a golden locket that a lady might wear in bed.

"I must have it near me, Wormtail, I must have it safe and nearby. There are certain rituals that are to take place on a full moon some time in the future, and there is…a _slight_ chance that things could go wrong for me. Yes, even I, Wormtail! If things should happen as they did eight years ago, when I tried to kill Longbottom, then I will be left a brittle shade, neither alive nor dead. And who knows whether my Death Eaters will have the brains to bring me back at once? I could be trapped in that state for some time. This locket will be a kind of shelter for my soul until such time as I can be restored. I am prepared to be torn from my body if that is what will happen – I am prepared to try again if things go wrong the first time. But if, instead of floating aimlessly, I plant myself in this locket, it will be easier to return, safer for me if I am being hunted. This is all precaution, you understand – I don't expect anything to go wrong. But if it does, only you will know – only you, Wormtail, will know where I am, and will have to bring this locket to the other Death Eaters once you know they are prepared to revive me."

Pettigrew had stammered his thanks, "an honour, an honour, my lord…"

"Stop your babbling," his master had hissed. "I did not choose you for any qualities of loyalty, Wormtail. I merely know that of all my servants, you have the most to lose from my disappearance. You are the only one whom I know for sure would _not_ seize upon the foolish notion of taking my place – would you, Wormtail?"

This seemed like a loaded question, so Pettigrew had just shaken his head with a mortified expression.

--------------------------------------------------

Now he reached the door of the shack and paused, gasping for breath and telling himself he wasn't weeping, it was just the pain from the scratches. The door creaked under the weight of his hands. Pettigrew noticed there was a nail hammered into it at head-height and wondered if someone had once pinned a note there.

He did not know what spells would be activated when he opened the door. Maybe none. Maybe he'd be fried to a crisp as soon as he stepped over the threshold. With this thought in mind, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself and a moment later Peter Pettigrew was gone and a small greying-brown rat was crouched in the grass, nose twitching as it surveyed the crumbling holes around the bottom of the door.

It was not even a squeeze for the rat to fit through holes in the door. It skittered onto the dirt floor inside and without even taking a moment to get its bearings, honed in on a patch in the middle of the floor and began to dig. The dirt was packed hard but the rat worked furiously until it had uncovered a small metal ring sticking upright from the floor.

Successful, it allowed itself a pause to rest. That was when it heard the growl.

The rat froze and sniffed the air. A strong, animal scent filled its nostrils and the rat trembled in horror. The scent was both familiar and unfamiliar – it knew well that wolfish, magical smell but not the human vestige lingering underneath it. There was a werewolf in the shack – but a werewolf that the rat had never met before.

It flicked its eyes around the room, searching for the monster. Then the shadows shifted to its right and something huge and salivating emerged from the corner of the fireplace and the wall. It was not a large werewolf, nor a very healthy-looking one – it was light-furred, rather skinny and its shoulders were lop-sided. The rat backed away slowly as the wolf padded towards it, tongue hanging languidly from its jaws. Long silver chains set into the stone fireplace held it in check.

The rat realised that the wolf was not snapping and hunched over as it would be if it was really interested in eating the small rodent that had entered its territory. In fact, the open-mouthed, tail-wagging body language looked curious, friendly – almost pleading. It occurred to the rat that the wolf, with its sensitive nose, probably knew perfectly well that it was not _truly_ a rat but a possible ally against its captivity.

The rat had made friends with a werewolf before. A million years ago, it seemed – and it had had help with that friendship – but still, why not now?

Keeping an eye on those long yellow teeth, the rat crept carefully back to the scrabbled trench in the dirt where the buried ring had been exposed. It began to dig around the ring once more. The wolf whined, its hot breath ruffling the rat's fur.

The rat leapt away in fright. But the wolf, after watching its new animal companion for a moment, bent its head and began to scratch at the ring with its paws. In only a few minutes it had done what would have taken the rat the rest of the night to do. The dirt had been cleared away from a small wooden trapdoor in the floor of the shack. The wolf looked up at the rat, which was grinning toothily and giving a self-satisfied smack of its tail on the dirt floor.

Now the hard part was coming. The rat would have to explain to the wolf that they had to open the trapdoor attached to the ring. Within was a hole too small for anything except a human arm – and any person who put their arm in that hole would not get it out again. They would be stuck there until the creator of the trap returned. A rat, however, would find it much easier to slip into and out of the hole, and that was exactly what it wanted to do.

--------------------------------------------------

It took all the rat's strength to drag the golden locket up out of the hole, through all the layers of hidden spells and tricks that its master had taught it to disable. When it reached the surface it lay for a moment with its body protectively covering the locket from the eyes of the curious wolf. It did not notice the rays of sunlight peeping through cracks in the boarded-up window until the sun crept onto the wolf's flank and suddenly it wasn't a wolf any more.

The rat scrambled up, transformed, and in one movement Pettigrew grabbed the locket and whipped out his wand. He jabbed it at the slumped bundle of legs and skirt lying at his feet but somehow the words of the killing curse got stuck between his brain and his tongue.

The girl looked more feral as a human than she had as a wolf. She raised herself onto her hands, staring up at his wand with a terrified expression. However, as the seconds ticked away and no fiery jet of light emerged from the wand-tip, her fear faded.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" she demanded, scratching at an oozing cut on her shoulder. There were bite-marks on her dusty, bare ankles and scratches on her face and arms. Werewolves didn't like being locked up.

Pettigrew backed towards the door, clutching the golden locket to his chest. His head was still reeling and he didn't answer the girl.

"_I_ remember you," the girl replied, getting woozily to her feet. "You were with the Death Eaters in that the house. _You're_ just a servant, aren't you?"

"I am not!" Pettigrew cried angrily. "How dare y-you!" He only vaguely remembered the girl – she had come to the house with Greyback and then run away. He winced as he remembered Greyback's rage that Pettigrew had let the girl go. Was she a spy against the werewolves? A pretty miserable sort of spy, if so.

The girl sniffed, leaning against the fireplace for support and staring at the gaping black hole from which the rat had taken out the locket. The silver chains on her wrists still bound her to the foundations of the shack and she looked hungrily at the hole.

"Is there more treasure in there?" She asked abruptly, looking up at him. He was still pointing a wand at her face but she seemed to have disregarded it now.

Pettigrew said nastily, "See f-for yourself. Put your arm in th-there."

The girl narrowed her eyes at him. "Nothing doing! What, it'll get bitten off? You're a horrid wretch for trying to trick me!" she snarled, sitting down and curling up in her sooty corner. "Just go away. Keep your treasure. _I _don't want it."

She looked so pathetic that Pettigrew felt bad for trying to get her trapped in the hole, where she would have starved to death before anyone came to rescue her. Deciding he didn't want to be out in the open forest just yet and he could always kill the girl later, he bent down, placed the locket in his open palm and looked at it fearfully.

His Master's soul could be in this gleaming trinket, barely clinging to life. It was Pettigrew's fault. All his fault…he'd let the boy get the wand…he'd let it happen… unable to stop himself, Peter Pettigrew burst into prickly tears.

From across the room floated a horrified voice. "Are you _crying?_"

"Sh-shut up!" Pettigrew shouted at the girl, who was staring at him with a kind of disgusted fascination from under her long fringe.

"You _are!_" She said, mouth hanging open. "You look pretty stupid, doing that! Whatever's the _matter?_ What's happened out there? What are you doing _here_, anyway?"

Pettigrew growled to himself and found to his surprise that anger had replaced his self-loathing. It felt much more comfortable and faded away to a dull determination not to provoke the girl's tongue any further. He pointed his wand at the locket and whispered something.

Nothing happened.

Pettigrew felt a little flutter of panic. He repeated the spell, waiting for the green flash that would confirm what the locket was carrying. _Nothing!_ But how could it be? His master was supposed to be waiting in the locket, waiting to be revived by him, Wormtail! Why was the locket carrying only the tiny fragment of soul that it had always carried? This wasn't right! Unless…

"He's dead," Pettigrew whispered. He felt his legs wobble and he slid down the wall, staring at the ashen fireplace without seeing it. "My Master is dead."

It could not be. Pettigrew had fled as soon as the great cage of light had arched over his master and the two boys but as he had snuck out of the house he heard Bellatrix's shouts to the other Death Eaters. He had thought her mad. But if the locket was empty, then it was true…but _how?_

Pettigrew clutched the golden glint in his hand. It was still a Horcrux. Surely it was. Surely, somewhere, somehow, his master had survived.

"Your Master?" the girl echoed from across the room. "Do you mean _Him?_ What's-his-name? But Fenrir says he _can't_ die!" she said in a disbelieving tone.

"He's gone," Pettigrew sobbed, half to himself.

The girl was silent for a moment. "I'm stuffed," she said aloud. "I'm absolutely buggered. I hate myself," she added loudly. "I'm so stupid!"

"Be quiet!" Pettigrew replied. Her voice was grinding on his nerves.

"Oh, go on, kill me!" The girl said hysterically. "Do it! Look at me. Do you know what I've done? I've done in everyone who was worth anything to me! Oh, Fenrir…" she crooned, hugging her knees. "Kill me, you stupid rat-man. Who's s'posed to take care of me? Remus and Fenrir both hate my guts and I don't want to go live with wizards. I hate them. I'll have to run away and live with ordinary people and they'll kill me as soon as I turn into a wolf…" she choked, briskly wiping a few tears out of her eyes.

Pettigrew had listened to her speech in silence and now he found that once again, his anger at her annoying chatter had ebbed away. "D-do you mean you've betrayed them both?" he asked. The mention of 'Remus' had made him jump, until he remembered that Remus Lupin was probably dead by now.

The girl nodded and blew her nose on the back of her wrist, wiping what came out on the dusty floor.

"Me too," Pettigrew said.

The girl raised red-rimmed eyes to look at him. "What?"

Pettigrew nodded, feeling his throat constrict. "I betrayed m-my friends too. If they saw me o-on the street they'd curse me as soon as look at me. And tonight, I did something a-awfully stupid and now my master is dead," he said hoarsely. "Every Death Eater that escapes will want me dead. All the rest of the Wizarding World too. What am I to do?"

The girl sniffed sympathetically and held up on skinny arm. "You couldn't get these chains off me, could you?" she said with what might – with a little imagination – have passed for a smile.

Pettigrew got wearily to her feet and stumbled over to her through the darkened shack. It took him a few minutes to find a spell to remove the chains but at last they clinked to the ground in a puddle of silver links. He helped the filthy girl to her feet. He saw that she had a round, rather ugly face under her straggly hair, yet it wasn't an _unfriendly_ face when you really looked at it. It was young and rather bitter, that was all.

"What's your name?" the girl asked, rugging her wrist.

Pettigrew paused. It took him a long time to answer. "Peter," he said finally.

She made a wry face like she thought it was a stupid name but wasn't going to say so. "I'm Maud," she answered gruffly, pushing past him to the door. "And I'm getting out of this disgusting little hole before Sirius Black comes back to get me."

"_What?_" Pettigrew spluttered, hurrying after her. How stupid he'd been! Of _course_ a wizard must have chained her in that shack! Why didn't he think of that?

They both broke out into the early morning sunshine. Maud put her hand to her brow to shade her eyes. "Sirius Moron Black," she replied. "He said he'd be back at dawn and since he's a stupid self-righteous prick, I don't really want to be here. Do you know how to ride a motorbike?"

Pettigrew started to shake his head, then stopped. "Y-you don't mean _Sirius'_ bike, do you?" he asked, frowning.

"Yes. It's right under that tree there," said Maud, pointing into the forest with one hand and the other on the hip of her ragged dress. "Can you fly it? I don't really want to, but I thought I'd bash up the paintwork with a stick before I left. Serve him right for leaving me here."

Pettigrew waded through the long grass in the direction she was pointing and, after a few minutes of searching, found the bike hidden by a Disillusionment charm under some small branches. He removed the illusion spell and pulled it upright. Maud was watching him from a distance and she flinched as the bike's growl cut through the quiet tittering of the birds.

She gaped at him as he wheeled the bike over to her, the engine chugging away surlily as if it knew it was being stolen.

"How did you _do_ that?" she said in wonder. "Even _Remus_ couldn't ever get that damn thing to start! And what happened to all the anti-burglar spells the dumb bastard put on his precious wheels?"

Pettigrew shrugged. "I u-used to fetch Sirius' bike from work for him sometimes," he muttered. "A long, long, time ago. Once y-you know the tricks it's not hard to get it going. I know w-where the tracking spell is so I took that off as well. And I guess e-even after all these years, he never bothered to change the password."

He managed to climb onto the seat of the bike, his feet dangling several inches off the ground. He could only just reach the gas pedal and he felt very insecure, sure he was going to slip straight off. But it was a lot better than fleeing on foot. He looked at the scruffy girl standing in the grass not far away, hunched over her crossed arms and staring at him with suspicious eyes.

"Look," Pettigrew said reluctantly. "A-as long as we're both on the run, I mean…it will be e-easier to hide together. Won't it?" He held up the locket. "I h-have to protect this in case my Master ever comes back but you can't w-wear it if you like. I don't l-like touching it."

Maud glanced at the sun peeping over the top of the trees, at the shining locket dangling from Pettigrew's fist, then at the balding, rat-like face of the man sitting astride the absurdly unsuited motorbike. She stomped over to him and snatched the locket in one filthy hand, looping the chain over her hair and tucking it under her dress.

"Yeah, alright," she said, clambering onto the bike behind him.

Pettigrew nervously gunned the engine, trying to remember how to fly the bike after all those years. Maud, a little unwillingly, put her hands on his shoulders. She was exactly the same height as him.

"Well," she said impatiently. "Let's get out of here."

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Harry dreamed of his parents dying and couldn't remember their faces. He saw a woman in a grey apron with a haggard look leering down and felt a rush of hate for her. He saw snakes and thought he would drown in them. He saw a lemon-yellow ceiling and a man with a long white beard leaning over him. The man disappeared and nearby, a conversation began that he could barely understand. Dumbledore's voice he recognised, though it seemed a lifetime since he'd heard it. The other voice was oily and sharp, nameless. Dumbledore supplied a name.

"…yes, Severus, I have seen Bellatrix's condition. I do not think in her present state she would know her own mother from a house-elf. But still, what could _possibly_ drive her to such distress but the death of her beloved master? What possible…?"

"You only believe Bellatrix because _Longbottom_ said it was so," the man named Severus replied. He sounded almost petulant. "But the simple fact remains, Dumbledore – _how can that Potter boy be alive_ if the Dark Lord is not?"

Dumbledore sighed, an old-man sigh. "It is the only part that does not fit, Severus. Look: the Mark faded from your arm, Bellatrix's hysteria, the ashes of Voldemort's body, the dementors he controlled turned loose, his servants masterless, his spells broken…only Harry's survival denies that he is dead. I do think you might at least open your mind to the possibility. I don't mean to flatter you when I say I count your opinion highly in these matters."

"So he was weakened! Weakened to the brink of death, but not beyond. It's happened before, I tell you. They brought him back once – when the remaining Death Eaters find him they will bring him back again. He is not dead."

"And you, Severus? What will you do when you find him?"

A pause, then, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He knows – or knew – you have no more loyalty left for him. He probably thinks – or thought – that you are dead. If you are so certain he will return, what are you planning to do when he does?"

Silence.

"I do wish Poppy could close his eyes," Dumbledore said softly. "Harry has been staring at that ceiling since he was brought in here…"

Dizzying dreams again. A woman in a green robe feeding him something sour and thick with a silver spoon. Snakes, in his throat and on his chest. The sound of the sea booming on the rocks and the weeping of children echoing in a dripping cave, "Tom! Stop it! Please, stop it Tom!" Voices whirling around him. A freckled face looking down and saying. "Isn't he awake? How come his eyes are open if he's not awake?" The long, crooked nose of Dumbledore filling his view. Had Sirius left him? Had Sirius _died?_ Hadn't he seen the silver ghost of a bear-sized dog, or had he only dreamed that?

Dumbledore was saying, "I am not from the asylum. I am a teacher and, if you will sit calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you –"

And Harry had sneered. "I'd like to see them try."

But no, it wasn't Dumbledore, because looking at him now Harry saw his beard was red and shorter and his face was young and less weary – but it _was_ Dumbledore's _face_.

He dreamed of fire encompassing his father's body and not understanding, yet, that his father was dead. The snakes were writhing in the fire – they were being consumed by it. Harry pulled their charred tails from around his wrists and tossed them into the inferno where somewhere the body of his father had vanished. Sirius had not come – and now Frank was dead – but at least the snakes were gone. And there was London grey and smoggy and he watched through a grimy window a man walking with a top hat, but even London faded and slowly, scrambling and slipping on the slope of his conscious mind, he closed his eyes and woke up.

Blinking up at the lemon-yellow ceiling, Harry found he was alive again.

It was very quiet. The light was strong around the bed he found himself lying in but it faded as he followed the plaster patterns of the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the top of a tall window and blue-black night shining through it, but he couldn't see anymore without turning his head. So he turned his head and saw that there were rows of beds stretching out on that side of him, the distant ones in shadow. He thought he could see someone about three beds along but he couldn't make out anything about them. He turned to look in the other direction and there were beds there, too. There was also someone beside him which gave him a start. He reached out his hand until he felt the corner of a bedside dresser and his fingers explored it until they met the rim of his glasses. He put them on, noticing by the polished feel of the frame that they must have been newly repaired by magic, and the person came into sharp focus.

It was a woman sitting asleep in a chair right beside his bed, with a bright lamp glowing on the cabinet behind her and a book that had fallen out of her hands and onto her lap. She didn't look like a very old woman, only a little plump in the arms and with a young sort of face that probably smiled a lot. Her cheeks were flushed pink, which wasn't surprising since she was wearing thick robes and a warm travelling cloak still splattered with mud right up to the elbows. Her hair was black and cut in a bob around her face.

Harry studied this woman for several minutes, wondering a lot of things until he had learned all he could about her just from looking, which wasn't very much, except that she was reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and the stamp on the page that had fallen open said _Hogwarts School Library._

He raised himself onto his elbows, wincing as he felt tendons groaning and stiff muscles stretching. He had one more chance to glance around the long room before the woman's eyelids fluttered and she raised her head with a yawn.

She saw Harry. She gave a yelp, said a jumble of syllables that might have been, "Ohmygodyou'reawake," or some similar exclamation and threw her hands to her mouth. _Quidditch Through the Ages_ tumbled to the floor and slid under the bed.

The woman jumped to her feet, still with her hands over her mouth. She said, all in a great flood of words, "I should get someone. Madame Pomfrey… but they're all asleep. I must have fallen asleep! Are you alright? Your glasses! Oh, that's right, Neville brought them this evening. Are you really awake? Should I get someone?"

Harry tried to speak and realised his throat was as dry as dust. He swallowed and croaked, "Could I have a drink of water, please?"

"Yes, of course!" the woman sighed, relaxing considerably at this decision. She cluttered away around the bed and came back with a pitcher and a glass from another cabinet. Her hand was shaking as she held out the full glass. Harry had to take it from her before she spilled it.

He drank the whole thing and she poured him another, which he drank half of before he pushed himself properly upright, sipping gratefully at the cool water. For a moment fire flashed in the back of his eyes – what had he been dreaming about? – but he pushed thoughts of his dreams aside and asked, "Am I in Hogwarts? Not in St Mungo's?"

"In the hospital wing at Hogwarts, yes," the woman said breathlessly. She had sat down on the chair again and was watching him as if he were a particularly strange animal in a zoo. "They were going to take you all to St Mungo's but Dumbledore said no, Neville was not to leave Hogwarts until he was certain it was safe, and Professor Snape neither, so they brought you all back here instead to save making two portkeys."

Harry absorbed this information with the water. After he'd finished the second glass the woman was still staring at him, so he reached past her to put the glass on the cabinet and said. "Er…sorry, but who are you?"

She jumped as if she had been thinking about something else and said. "Sorry! I'm Professor Jones. Hestia Jones, I mean. I'm not a Professor anymore, I keep forgetting."

"Ah," said Harry. "You taught at Hogwarts?"

"Until Lupin gets better, I still do. But he said he'd be on his feet by Thursday, if Poppy – the matron, I mean – lets him out of his bed."

"Moony?" Harry asked anxiously. "He's been hurt?"

Hestia Jones looked taken aback. "Sorry! I keep forgetting you don't _know_ anything! Don't worry, he's all right now – thanks to you," she beamed. "Do you know what you've _done?_ You and Neville Longbottom?"

Harry did not know what he had done, but she seemed to take his silence for concurrence and didn't elaborate. She kept goggling at him with a kind of childish wonder that made him feel uncomfortable and agoraphobic in the great big room with its lemon-yellow ceiling. Where were the closed-in hallways of the Riddle house, the hedged garden with its towering wall a constant reminder of his imprisonment? Everything felt _strange_.

"If you don't mind," Harry said quietly. "Where's Sirius?"

Hestia Jones gave another gasp. "Of course! I'm sorry. He's been sitting right here all day but they all said he had to go and get some rest and Poppy – er, Madame Pomfrey – said he couldn't stay in the Hospital Wing because he and Severus would fight. And she wouldn't let _Severus_ leave because she says he still needs to be under observation in case he gets worse or something, but he said he was leaving in the morning no matter what. So Sirius has gone to sleep in Remus' office. I'll go get him…"

"Well, if he's asleep…" Harry said, feeling that _he_ wouldn't like to be woken if _he'd_ been sitting in a chair all day watching someone lie unresponsive on a bed.

"Harry, he had to be practically dragged away from your bedside! I _don't_ think he's going to mind!" Hestia Jones said loudly, then looked down the length of the room with a guilty expression. "Damn, I hope I haven't woken anyone up…"

"Wait," said Harry as she spun around with a swish of her unwashed cloak. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "Um," Harry tried to think how to phrase his question. "How do you know Sirius? And me?"

Hestia Jones looked a little perplexed at the question. It took her a moment to get to the answer. "Don't you remember me? But I suppose, you only saw me that once, for about five minutes, when you were four years old. I used to be an Auror with Sirius. I've been helping look for you with him and Remus."

"You're not his…" Harry could not bear to say 'girlfriend' or 'wife', but all his paranoia that Sirius had gotten married and gone on with life without him were bubbling up now.

Luckily Hestia caught his meaning at once. "Oh, no, nothing like that," she said rather quickly and scurried away to the door. She slipped through it backwards so that her head was the last part of her to disappear – she gave him a final smile and then closed the door with a click.

Harry, feeling assuaged of his fears, lay back against the huge cloudy cushions. He was so warm and comfortable that he couldn't help closing his eyes and enjoying the softness of the heavy sheets. Before he could even remind himself not to, he had fallen asleep once more, but this time it was a rich, dreamless sleep with his glasses still on his nose.

----------------------------------------------

It was morning when he opened his eyes and found a new person sitting in the chair: it was Sirius, slumped sideways, leaning on the side of Harry's bed and fast asleep on his folded arms.

It was strange how his Godfather didn't look changed in the slightest. His cheeks were a little more hollow, and perhaps there were a few flecks of grey at his roots, but nothing else that would suggest Harry had not seen him for a year. Yet he was sure that Sirius looked different somehow. His own memory, it seemed, had changed his Godfather's face and now the reality was what was alien to him.

"You're awake, then?" said a sour voice from behind him. Harry twisted his neck around to see a beaky, pale man limping down the aisle towards him, slipping a crystal vial into a bag balanced on his hip. The man had greasy black hair, flint-sharp eyes and a bitter curl to his lip. He did not look even vaguely familiar to Harry.

He put his hand out to shake Sirius' shoulder and the black haired man closed his bag with a snap and hissed, "Don't wake _him_ up!"

Harry's hand froze in mid-air. The man was looking irate as he limped quickly towards the door of the hospital wing, keeping his eye on Harry's hovering hand as if willing it to hold still. However, before Harry could ask what on earth was wrong, another voice broke through the tense silence.

"Don't be ridiculous Severus," it said softly from the bed a few down from Harry's. This voice he recognised. He turned again and caught Lupin's placid smile.

"Moony," he yelped, throwing back the covers and sliding out onto the cool tiled floor. Sirius gave a snuffle and shifted on his arms without waking up.

Lupin was lying back against the great fluffy pillows of his bed, appearing as nothing more than a stick inspect on a large paper towel. His arms resting on top of the blankets showed toothpick wrists and his face was grey and sunken. He looked as if he had been battered about in a hurricane for several days.

"Severus, you couldn't go and see if Tonks is around, could you?" Lupin asked faintly, calling after the black-haired man who had just reached the door of the hospital wing.

The unpleasant-faced man paused, gave Lupin a deeply pessimistic look as if this small favour was tantamount to a life-long quest, and said grudgingly, "I will see, Remus."

Lupin smiled gratefully and then transferred his gaze to the boy who had reached his bedside by now. "Hello, Harry," he said, raising his arms weakly.

Harry sunk into Lupin's hug, pulling back quickly as the professor hissed in pain.

"You alright?"

"Quite," Lupin said reassuringly, but his voice was still small and husky. "Severus was just bringing me an elixir that should have me right as rain in a few days."

"Why's he looking so angry? Why didn't he want me waking Sirius up?"

Lupin chuckled. "Nothing serious. They just tend to – er – disagree. Whenever they're in the same room together. Don't grimace, we both owe Severus our lives."

"Why? And how'd you get so hurt? Was it a bad transformation?" Harry asked all at once.

"No," Lupin replied, and the smile disappeared. "No, I won't be transforming anymore, Harry. But we'll talk about all that later," he added quickly. "Go wake up your godfather. It can't be very comfortable sleeping in that chair."

Harry squeezed Lupin's hand and made his way back down the row. He couldn't help hesitating as he approached Sirius. But he forced himself to take a breath, reach out and shake his godfather's shoulder.

Sirius twitched, mumbled and sat up in the chair. It took him a moment to focus on Harry standing in front of him in the long hospital gown. There were several seconds of drawn-out silence while neither of them could think of anything to say.

Finally, "I'm back," shrugged Harry.

"You are," Sirius said in a dazed voice. He seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment, then took a hold of Harry's wrists in an iron grip, "Sit down, hold still, let me see you. Just for a moment," he directed Harry to sit down on the bed but his grasp on his godson's wrists did not lessen.

_He thinks if he lets go, I'll disappear,_ Harry thought. His feet were starting to get cold from the tiles and he felt Lupin watching them from across the room. He felt exposed and pinned between the two pairs of eyes. There was so much space in this room, so much freedom. It made him want to crawl away under the bed and stay there until things returned to normal. Until Pettigrew came to call him downstairs for a soup-and-bread lunch, until the mouldy, prickly sheets of the Riddle bedroom replaced the impossibly white ones he was sitting on, until Frank came limping across the garden with his gardening tools tucked in the brown leather bag under his arm.

"Harry?" Sirius said hoarsely, concern swamping his features. "You alright? You look…"

Harry shook his head, trying to smile. It came out as a sort of contorted leer.

"That a yes or a no?" Sirius said softly, managing a grin where Harry couldn't.

"I'm fine," Harry croaked. "I'm…" but he _wasn't_ fine and the next moment he folded forward against Sirius' chest and let his godfather's arms close over him while he stayed there, trembling, for what seemed like a week or a month or a decade. Not crying – if he could hold back tears after what he'd faced at the full moon, he could certainly hold them back now – but just letting his shoulders shudder and the tensed muscles in his arms and chest slowly unwind.

No, he wasn't fine – not at all – but that didn't mean he had to keep soldiering on by himself. Not anymore.

Sirius lowered himself back into the chair and Harry flopped onto the bed, both wearing identical sheepish grins though there wasn't really any reason to be embarrassed.

"Look at your hair," said Sirius, jabbing his finger at it in mock horror. "It's down to your collar! And it's a _mess._"

"Yeah, well you got uglier too," Harry replied, scratching at his – undeniably filthy - hair.

"Doubtlessly." Sirius nodded smugly. "Those tangles are _never_ going to come out, we'll have to hack them all off. Did you have even _one_ bath since I saw you last?"

Harry wanted to say something cheerful in reply but thinking of the cold baths and long days spent in mindless lethargy for want of a ray of sunlight made his tongue seize up before he could reply.

Sirius saw at once what was wrong and leaned forward quickly, looking distressed as he said, "Sorry. You don't have to talk about that yet," his brows knotted when he amended suddenly, "But you weren't – they didn't _starve_ you or hurt you or anything? They caught a lot of the Death Eaters and I swear, you tell me names and I'll see they get every single thing that's coming to them…"

"No, no, you don't need to go swearing revenge," Harry cut him off hastily. "I wasn't hurt."

Sirius patted his hand. "We'll talk about it later. I'm not letting a single day that you were lost go unpunished."

He sounded so firmly determined to seek retribution Harry almost laughed. There was a gleam in his Godfather's eye of disbelief and joy mixed in with his grim, craggy features. Sirius had been handsome once – now he looked only weather-beaten, like a rock carved by a millennium of raindrops.

In a great unexpected flood, Harry remembered everything that had happened and the memories swamped over his relief. Visions of gleaming red eyes and towering black-cloaked figures that rattled death when they breathed rushed across his retina and he saw again the golden threads of light arching over him, _through_ him, and the dead weight in his arms of an old man's body.

"Frank," Harry gasped, sitting upright and twisting around to face Sirius. "Did you find Frank? Did you bring him back?"

"Who?" Sirius said. The genuine puzzlement in his tone made Harry want to shout. But of course, Sirius _couldn't_ understand who Frank was and what he meant.

"There was the body of an old muggle," Harry explained, trying not to rush his words. "On the road leading up to the house. He might still be there – I have to find him –"

Recognition dawned on Sirius' face. "No," he said a little reluctantly. "I think they found the man's body."

"What's wrong? Where is it?" Harry was frantic.

"Um," Sirius looked past Harry as he spoke, probably meeting Lupin's eye. "Well, the Ministry determined he died by the killing curse, and their policy at the moment is to keep anything, er, suspicious like that from falling into muggle hands. The muggles are clever at picking these things up, you see, and so – well, the ministry destroys the bodies. If the victim has family they modify memories and substitute in an empty coffin."

"Frank's gone," Harry said distantly. It felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach.

"I'm sorry," Sirius said lamely, running his hands through his hair in a uncertain gesture. "Was he sort of a friend?"

"Yes," Harry said tonelessly. The horror of what had happened was still whirling inside him with Frank's death at the pinnacle of it all. "And it's my fault."

Sirius leaned forward, his face looking older and craggier than ever. "Your _fault?_ Harry, do you know what you've done?" he said in exactly the same way that Hestia Jones had said it. "You've done a greater favour than the whole Wizarding world could ever repay. You-Know-Who…I mean, _Voldemort_," he corrected himself firmly, "is dead. You're not a blasted Horcrux anymore. We're _free_, all of us. Because of _you_."

Harry raised his eyes to take in his godfather's thrilled expression. He swallowed. "Sirius, I have to tell you what happened," he said.

There was a thump and a crash as the door of the hospital wing was thrown open and a pink-haired bullet flew inside, robes billowing around her. Nymphodora Tonks charged down the aisle without even glancing at Sirius and Harry, and like a muggle heat-seeking missile she headed straight for Lupin. She slid to a halt beside his bed and there was a brief moment for Lupin to brace himself before Tonks collided with him.

"What is she _doing?_" Harry watched, open mouthed. Tonks was kissing every inch of Lupin's face that she could reach – which was all of it – and the oddest thing was that Lupin did not seem to be resenting the attention.

Sirius looked faintly embarrassed at his cousin's lack of discretion. "That's news for you, of course," he said, to distract Harry from the spectacle. "They're – er – together now, in a manner of speaking. I'll tell you the whole story later."

But Tonks, it seemed, had not come alone. Three figures had arrived in the doorway, sneaking in behind Tonks in a slightly guilty manner.

Harry felt his stomach do a funny sort of pirouette and land wrong-side up on his liver. Ron was taller and ganglier than ever and Hermione's hair had grown several inches in a horizontal direction but he had not forgotten their faces. Neville lurked behind them, glancing over his shoulder. Harry could not believe they were here to see him. Friends his own age? _Never_! He found himself grinning at his own disbelief.

Hermione gave a little squeak as she saw him and put her hands to her mouth. Ron and Neville followed her across the aisle to the end of Harry's bed where they all stood there like a trio of very unconventional guardian angels, goggling at him.

Sirius looked scrutinisingly between the children before he noticed a very irate looking woman in a wimple hurrying down the wing towards them. "There's Madame Pomfrey. I'll go waylay her before she kicks you out," he offered to the trio, patting Harry on the shoulder and getting to his feet. He strode off and intercepted the determined-looking Matron before she could reach any of her patients.

Under the stares, Harry was beginning to feel like an ornament in a glass case. "Um," he said after a moment. "Hello. How did you know I was awake?"

"We were coming out of the hall from breakfast and Tonks went past at a hundred miles an hour," Ron mumbled into his collar. He looked nervous and embarrassed.

"We couldn't get in without her," Hermione added breathlessly. "There are Aurors patrolling the corridor outside."

"Why does the nurse need waylaying?" Harry asked as he noticed that Sirius and Madame Pomfrey seemed to be having a rather energetic conversation.

"She's very protective of you all," Hermione explained, looking just as embarrassed as Ron. "She threw Tonks out yesterday for disturbing Professor Lupin's rest."

"I see."

There was another few seconds of awkward silence, during which Sirius' debate about what constituted disorderly behaviour in a hospital carried over to their ears. Ron was fiddling with the clasp of his robe and Neville was looking at him and Hermione as if they had forgotten their lines during a school play. None of them had tried to move any closer.

"Look," Harry said. "What's wrong with you all? Am I diseased or something?"

Hermione and Ron both gushed reassuring statements to the contrary. Harry sat himself up a little higher and crossed his legs. "Then why are you acting like I'm a particularly nasty dragon asleep on your roof?" he said in exasperation.

"No, Harry it's not like that, it's just…" Hermione protested weakly, "well, look!" She reached into her bag and pulled out a freshly printed copy of the _Daily Prophet._ "We don't mean to, but – Neville, stop hiding behind me, we feel just the same when we're talking to _you!_" she said furiously.

"But you _always_ talk to me like that," Neville said, rolling his eyes.

"We do not!" Hermione replied as she unfolded the newspaper and turned it around so Harry could see it. On the front page were two large black-and-white photos. One was of the Riddle House by daylight with tiny robed figures swarming in and out of its doors and waving what might have been Secrecy Sensors. The other was of a pair of closed double-doors guarded by a furiously-gesturing Madame Pomfrey.

"That's the doors of the hospital wing. A couple of reporters got in yesterday but she chased them off," Ron said with a fearful glance at the matron.

Hermione began to read from the newspaper. "_The rumours you are hearing are true_," she spoke in a shaky voice. "_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is, and will remain, defeated and utterly destroyed. Representatives from the Ministry today confirmed the death of the man who so nearly overthrew the precious world that we, as a nation of witches and wizards, have tended for centuries. Daily Prophet reporter Celeb Figaro writes from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where Headmaster Albus Dumbledore refused to comment on claims that the evil Sorcerer was defeated, not by the Ministry's trained Aurors or by mature wizards such as Dumbledore himself – but by a pair of young students from Hogwarts school."_

Hermione paused and raised her eyes and met Harry's stunned gaze. "Do you see why we're so nervous?" she said quietly. "It's you, Harry. You they're talking about."

"They haven't mentioned you by name," Ron added hurriedly. "They paper says Neville was in on it but you're just 'another youngster.' Dumbledore hasn't let slip you who you are."

Harry looked at Neville, who gave him a weak smile. "I haven't said anything to anyone apart from Dumbledore," he said. "I only woke up yesterday evening. You've been asleep since they brought us back two nights ago. But what could I tell them, Harry? I don't _know_ what happened."

Ron took off for a moment and came back with two spare chairs which he dumped by the bed before dropping down into Sirius' absented one. Hermione and Neville took the other two. "We brought you breakfast," Ron said, opening his bag. He took out two plates of toast, spreads, bacon, fruit and a pitcher of pumpkin juice with _Do Not Remove From the Great Hall_ written along the handle. The plates were covered with a wobbly bubble charm that Hermione removed with a tap of her wand.

"Will you tell us?" she asked tentatively. "A whole year, Harry – how did you _survive_ that?"

And Harry, not really sure what else to do but feeling as if a wall of friends had grown up around his bed, began to describe that past year as best he could.

----------------------------------

Sirius came back and sat on the end of the bed while Harry talked. And talked. And talked. Before long Tonks and Madame Pompfrey both slipped closer to listen in. Every now and then somebody would interject with a question or a horrified exclamation but that only made it easier to get the story straight. Hermione and Ron both got very excited when Harry talked about Frank and there was an interlude while they described Frank's arrival at the Burrow and how awful they had felt when his information had proved useless. When Harry told them what had happened to the old gardener Hermione burst into tears.

"Did you get Malfoy?" Harry asked once Neville had given her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "Are they giving him to the Dementors for murdering Frank?"

"We got him," Tonks said with a touch of nastiness in her voice. "And he's not squirming out of what he deserves, not this time. He'll go to Azkaban for the rest of his days if there's any justice in our Ministry. They tracked down most of the Werewolves, too – but Greyback is still on the loose. He took off as soon as he became human this morning."

"Werewolves?" Harry asked with a frown.

So there had to be another interlude while Sirius – aided by Lupin, who called weakly across the room when Sirius got some detail wrong or spoke particularly venomously about Maud – told the whole tale about Lupin's dealings with the werewolves, his capture and forced trial of the Lycanthropy cure, and Maud's spectacular arrival at Grimmauld Place.

"I must have found the Riddle House right after the Death Eaters had fled it," Sirius said once he had told the story of his and Maud's flight to Little Hangleton. "It was empty when I got there so I headed back to the village. I ran into the Dementors on my way down the road and I saw at once that they were already honing in on someone. When I heard you shouting, Harry," he gulped. "If you can rent a Dementor limb from limb, I would have done it right then."

"Shouting?" Harry asked. "When…?"

"When the Dementors surrounded us you started shouting for Sirius," Neville supplied helpfully.

Harry was silent for a moment. "What do Dementors look like?" he asked slowly. "I don't think I saw them. At least, I don't remember them. Were we still in the grounds of the house?"

Neville and Sirius both stared at him.

"We were on the road," Neville said. "Snape found us in the basement – don't you remember? He lead us down the village but we were attacked by the Dementors on the way. You kept sort of passing out but I'm sure you were awake by then…"

"Poppy, you did say there was nothing wrong with his head, didn't you?" Sirius asked the Matron anxiously.

"He's been through an awful trauma. It's shock, no doubt," she said, but there was an uncertain waver in her voice. "The hallucinations he was having are gone, I'm sure of it."

"Hallucinations?" Harry's eyes widened.

"You were all funny when they brought you in," Ron cut in. "You looked like you were awake but you couldn't see or hear us. Just babbling on, calling to people who weren't there, lying stiff as a board…Neville said you'd been like that since you-know-what happened…"

"But he is perfectly healthy now. I would know if there was the slightest damage to his brain, magical or no!" Madame Pomfrey insisted, while everyone else fidgeted uncomfortably, reluctant to disagree.

"What happened to Maud?" Harry asked, to cover up the confusion. "Was she alright?"

Tonks let out a triumphant, "Ha!" and looked at Lupin, perhaps expecting him to reprimand her, but he stayed silent.

"When I went to find her, she was gone, along with my bike," Sirius said grimly. "No one's seen hide nor hair of her rotten pelt since. But she couldn't have rid herself of those chains, or gotten my bike started, without magic. Magic and Maud don't go together even in the best of times, so someone either killed her or flew off with her."

"If she comes back," Lupin said quietly from along the way, "my door will be open to her."

"Remus, she threw you to that foul Greyback beast without a care!" Tonks answered angrily.

"And I wanted to skin her for it," he replied, breaking into a racking cough so that everyone winced in sympathy. Once the fit was over he continued croakily. "But she betrayed Greyback and the Death Eaters as well. None of you can tell me she did that for selfish motives."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Harry still hasn't finished _his_ story," she said. "And neither has Neville. Neither of you have told us what happened that night, after –" she paused. "-after Neville was kidnapped. How you…survived," she finished.

Neville and Harry looked at one another. Neville hunched his shoulders so that the lower half of his face was hidden in the swathe of red and gold scarf wrapped around his neck. His voice muffled through the material, he said, "If Harry can tell you anything, it's more than I can. I don't understand it. But Dumbledore will figure it out, don't worry, Harry."

Harry didn't reply. A curiously reluctant look had come across his face.

Hermione, meanwhile, had been craning her neck to read Ron's watch. "Oh, hell! Ron, we missed the whole of Divination! We're already late for Care of Magical Creatures," she said frantically, grabbing her bag.

"Hagrid won't mind," Ron said cheerfully, picking up his own schoolbag and putting the empty plates and the juice pitcher back into it with a deliberate slowness that was obviously meant to irk his bushy-haired friend. Harry sighed. He'd never met Hagrid but he'd heard about him from Hermione and Ron and he wished he could come to their Care of Magical creatures class.

Madame Pomfrey got up, smoothing the creases of her apron. "I'll go and see if Severus' potion has improved Remus' condition," she said primly and floated off down the aisle.

"So will I," Tonks added, stretching and hurrying after her.

Hermione had grabbed the _Daily Prophet_ and was stuffing it into her bag but she paused and held it out to Harry. "You take it," she mumbled as she turned away. "And I hope – oh, Harry, I hope it really is over. All of it," as he took the paper she leaned forward and hugged him quickly. "It will be wonderful having you in school," she smiled.

"It really will, mate," Ron agreed, though he refrained from the hugging.

"Are you coming Neville?" Hermione asked as the two of them headed for the door of the Hospital wing.

"In a bit. Tell Hagrid I'll be there soon," Neville answered. He looked nervously at Sirius and then at Harry.

"Neville-" Harry began.

"You know something," Neville said bluntly. "Tell Dumbledore first. It's like Hermione said – all I want is for everything to really be done and finished. All I can ask is, what do you remember after…after you woke up? It was like," Neville struggled for words, "like you were living your life backwards, you weren't even there. And you don't remember the Dementors? I don't think I could forget them if I tried," he shivered.

Harry opened his mouth to answer but it took him a moment. "I don't remember anything," he said. "I mean, I knew time was passing – if that makes sense – but what I was thinking during that time," he paused. "Only flashes."

Neville nodded and picked up his schoolbag. As he stood up he gave Harry a rare smile. "I sorted it out," he said.

"Sorted out what?"

"The difference between us," Neville replied. "It's going to be good to have my head to myself again," he tapped temple with one finger. Tucking his chin back into his scarf and his hands into his pockets, he turned and marched away out the door.

Sirius was the only one left, apart from Tonks and Madame Pomfrey bickering over Lupin's welfare further down the aisle.

"Can we go for a walk?" Harry asked quietly, sliding out of the bed.

Sirius shot a guilty glance in Madame Pomfrey's direction. "Yeah, alright," he said in a lowered voice. "But go quick before she notices."

As they sped out the door of the Hospital wing, Sirius took off his outer robe and draped it over his godson's shoulders. Harry was glad for this as he was wearing only a thin white gown that must have been the uniform for hospital wing patients. It suddenly occurred to him that someone must have taken his old clothes _off_ to get the gown on. He tried not to think about that.

Sirius raised his hand to a tall black man with an Auror badge on his shoulder who passed them in the corridor. The man nodded in reply and bent at the waist with a flourish of his hand when he looked at Harry.

"Did he just…?"

"Bow to you? Yes I think so," Sirius replied as they reached the end of the corridor and started down a winding flight of stairs. "That was Kingsley Shacklebolt, by the way. He's a good friend of ours."

Harry wasn't sure whether 'ours' meant 'me and you' or 'me and Remus and everyone else I'm friends with that you don't know about'. He tried to imagine Sirius living life in the Wizarding World, having the sort of friends that he'd never had when the two of them had been in hiding, and found he just couldn't get his head around it.

"You _are_ alright, aren't you?" Sirius asked as they wandered down an empty corridor. From a half-open door came the riotous laughter of a class of children whose teacher had performed some clever conjuring trick. The cheerful sounds died away as they turned the next corner. "I mean, I'd trust Madame Pomfrey to bring the dead back to life, but you did seem very ill only yesterday. You don't even feel faint?"

"Not at all," Harry replied firmly, tightening the robe around his shoulders. "And I need to get my blood moving. Take me for a tour of Hogwarts, won't you?"

"It's a few years since I've been acquainted with this place," Sirius laughed. "And it does tend to change as the years go by. Rooms don't stay put."

Nevertheless, he endeavoured to point out Hogwarts' most interesting features as he lead Harry through sun drenched hallways and up and down spiralling staircases. Harry, of course, had already explored a great deal of Hogwarts undercover of the Invisibility cloak when he had been illicitly living in the Room of Requirement. He really just wanted to keep Sirius occupied while he tried to piece together the impossible things that had happened over the past few days – along with all the other things in his life that were only now falling into place.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" Harry looked up at his Godfather.

"Have you been listening to me at all for the last hour?"

Harry looked around and realised they were standing in the cloisters of a small courtyard. Trees had grown up and rooted their branches into the roof-tiles and the stone was so worn on the path it looked as if it were sagging in the centre. "Sorry," Harry admitted. "It isn't that I'm not interested. Just other things on my mind."

"I'll bet," Sirius replied, raising his eyebrows.

Silence fell between them again. Harry leaned against the colonnade of the cloister and said heavily, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such a gloomer."

"After all you've been through, I think you can be pardoned."

He looked up at his Godfather and wished he knew what felt so awkward between them. It was like a great pit had opened up with Sirius on one side and Harry on the other. Now it was taking all their strength just to carry out the simplest conversation, having to shout across that gaping chasm of muddled feelings and uncomfortable politeness. Was Sirius disappointed in him somehow? Was he subconsciously _angry_ at Sirius? Or was it something else entirely?

As if his godfather had read his mind, Sirius sighed and said. "I think the trouble, Harry, is that I still think you're twelve years old, and you're not. Hell, thirteen – that I could adjust to. But you've overshot your thirteenth birthday and gone straight on to adulthood. I wish I could say it's only been a year since I saw you last and things will go back to normal, but it hasn't been a year for either of us. It's been a decade."

This felt so true that Harry smiled his assent. "Yeah. It really has."

This time the silence was comfortable and unnoticed. Harry's mind snagged on something in his memory and he laughed out loud. "I _do_ remember something from the Dementor attack," he said reproachfully. "Your Patronus! It saved my life, I remember it clear as anything. It looked – well, like _Padfoot!_ It looked _exactly_ like you when you're in your animagus form."

"Your point being?" Sirius glanced innocently at the square of blue sky above and tucked his hands under his armpits.

"Isn't that of bit… egotistical of you?"

Sirius shrugged. "It didn't always take that form. It used to look like something else. I think it changed after your Mum and Dad died."

"I didn't know a Patronus could change its shape," Harry said in amazement.

"Well, it takes a bit of a shock to change something that intimate," Sirius explained. "And after all that happened back then, with us being on the run without so much as a penny to fall back on, I had no one to rely on but myself. If the Patronus represented something in which you put all your trust, the only person I could put my trust in was…well, me."

"But not anymore?"

Sirius shook his head. "Things are looking up," he smiled.

He raised his eyes and the smile vanished as if it had Disapparated. Harry twisted around to look over his shoulder and saw that Severus Snape, the black-haired man who had been in the Hospital wing when he woke up that morning, was standing in the archway that lead back inside. He was carrying a pair of thick volumes under his arm and seemed to have been snapped out of a trance – he was paused on the threshold of the corridor with a look of surprise on his sallow face.

Harry, standing directly between Sirius and Severus Snape, felt as if an invisible electric current had passed through him. His Godfather was as taut as piano wire, one fist clenching and unclenching by his side. Snape seemed to have recovered from his surprise and though his features had arranged themselves into an apathetic expression, something beneath his skin was seething.

For a few moments there was utter silence, then Snape said lazily, "You should be in the hospital wing." He seemed to be addressing Harry but his eyes had not left Sirius'.

"Harry's fine," Sirius barked at once.

Snape's gaze swung towards him and Harry flinched away. There was pure hate in those eyes. "I should thank you, boy, for doing the deed that they said was impossible," he said in a slippery tone. "If only you would tell me exactly how it was done."

Harry forced himself not to draw away from that interrogating gaze. He was not sure if Snape was actually asking him a question, so he didn't answer. He heard Sirius clench his fist yet again, his knuckles clicking under the skin.

After a moment, Snape continued softly, "Or, indeed, if it was done at all."

He'd hit the bullseye. Sirius lurched forward, drawing his wand out of his pocket. He would probably have gone so far as to grab the front of Snape's robes if Harry was not still standing between them, "Keep talking, _Snivellus_, and we'll just see how well you can spy with your insides on your outside," he said brashly.

Snape shot him a very patronising look and said with a greasy layer of sarcasm. "Eloquent as ever, Black."

"Get out of here, you filth," Sirius hissed.

"Might I remind you that _I_ am a Professor of this school and _you_, Black, are nothing more than a guest," Snape replied, his eyes narrowing. "And if I wish to speak to your precious _Godson_ you would do well not to interfere."

"Or what? You'll go crying to Dumbledore?" Sirius gave a very humourless laugh and the hand that was not holding his wand came down on Harry's shoulder.

"I believe Dumbledore is making a grave mistake in allowing _either_ of you to remain within the walls of this school," Snape said silkily.

Harry felt shocked anger boil up in him. "I'm fine!" he said, taking a step towards Snape, who did not meet his eye.

The tendons were beginning to show in Sirius' neck. "That's your plan?" he said tersely. "You'll have Harry transferred to St Mungo's where your friends, your Master's scattered cronies, can take revenge on him, will you? I thought you were supposed to be _clever,_ Snivellus."

"Do not," Snape breathed, the indifferent tone vanishing, "accuse me of that, Black. That is all over for me," he regained his composition and continued. "As it stands, it is Dumbledore who suggested that the boy remain under his observation, at least until all the facts are gathered about the night of the full moon."

Harry felt Snape's words clang and echo in his head like a gong. Did Dumbledore think he was crazy, or did he suspect something worse? What did the old Headmaster know?

"Dumbledore will tell me if there's something wrong," Sirius replied hotly.

Snape gave a snort of derision.

Sirius' voice rose, "You might have duped Remus into giving you his gratitude, _Snivellus_, but snakes don't change their colours," he spat.

"I have no need of the ex-werewolf's gratitude," Snape straightened his back and strode past the both of them with a whirl of black robes. "Once less werewolf in the world does not necessarily make one more man."

Sirius' hand on Harry's shoulder tightened until his grip was so strong his fingers with digging into Harry's collarbone. "_Two_ less werewolves," his Godfather said proudly.

Snape slammed to a halt a spun around. _"Two?_ Sorry to disappoint you, Black," he did not sound sorry – in fact, he sounded faintly triumphant, "but that boy is no less a werewolf than he was a year ago."

Sirius' brows knotted sceptically as if Snape had said something absurd and he could not decide whether it was a joke or not. "You must have missed something, Snivellus. Harry's cured. That damned potion worked on Remus, didn't it?"

"_Remus_ got all three doses, Black," Snape leered. "But _he_," his eyes flicked to Harry, "could not have received the final elixir. I was in Slughorn's research group before he disappeared a year ago, and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. The effects of the first two potions become null and void at dawn unless the third is delivered. I'm _so_ sorry_,"_ he finished before he turned his back on Sirius once more and swept away with a jaunty step in his stride.

Sirius stared after him, mouth ajar. "He's a liar," he said fiercely, glancing at Harry. "He's messing with us."

"No, he's not," Harry said quietly. Sirius' lips drew back in a defensive snarl.

"But Remus said…!"

"You-Know-Who said I was going to be cured at dawn," Harry explained. "But we never… er … got that far. With all the things going on, I completely forgot about it," he gave Sirius a weak smile. "So no harm done, really," he shrugged.

"No _harm_? But Slughorn…"

"Is dead. I know. Along with any chance for a cure," Harry scowled. "So why don't we just drop it?"

Sirius did not reply, but he was vibrating with fury. Harry glared out across courtyard, hoping his Godfather would take the hint and not make a fuss. It was painful enough to think that he had been only hours away from ridding himself of the lycanthropy that had plagued him since childhood. But he had _known_ that he was giving up that chance when he fought back against Voldemort. It had been a choice between ending his life as a werewolf or keeping his soul and there was no way in a million years he would have it the other way around.

Sirius opened and closed his mouth several times but at last he didn't say anything. Instead, he let go of Harry's shoulder and stomped away in the opposite direction Snape had taken. Harry hurried to catch up with him.

"Where are we going?"

Sirius glanced over his shoulder at the archway behind them where the potions professor had disappeared. "Snape's a liar but he taunts better with the truth. I want to know why Dumbledore is keeping you under observation."

With a sick sensation trickling into his stomach, Harry nodded and followed him.

---------------------------------------------------

There was no answer when they knocked on the door of Dumbledore's office. He was not in the Great Hall either, but on their way out they met Tonks, who was looking rather flustered and a little irate.

"Just watch out when you go back to the Hospital wing," she warned Sirius. "Madame Pomfrey is baying for your blood because you took Harry out of her sight."

"Have you seen Dumbledore?" Harry asked her quickly.

"No. Have you checked the staff room?"

Classes were ending as they went in search of the Hogwarts staff room. Sirius waded through the packs of students with Harry trailing behind him and trying not to get separated. He kept his head down to avoid the stares of the students around him, hoping it was merely his unorthodox Godfather and lack of school uniform that was making him stand out, rather than any rumour that he was the boy who had somehow defeated You-Know-Who.

Someone looked at him and touched their cheek as he hurried past and he realised that it was nothing more than his scars that were making people gawk. He nearly laughed aloud – it was a year since he had seen a mirror. He'd nearly forgotten how other people reacted to the old marks of the werewolf.

He could not help noticing, though, that there were smiling faces everywhere. Friends whispered behind their hands, hugs broke out unexpectedly, people covered their mouths as they heard some fresh bit of news, their eyes wide and disbelieving. The front page of the _Daily Prophet_ was flashed and passed around beneath shocked faces. The good news seemed to be emanating through the air as if it did not even need gossip to spread it.

The gargoyles that guarded the door of the staff room would not let them through, but McGonagall opened the door for them and understood at once who they were after. Neither she, nor Flitwick who was sipping coffee at the table across the room, knew where the Headmaster had gone to. The last time they had seen him was the day before, when he had been talking to Lupin.

Frustrated, Harry and Sirius were just leaving when Hestia Jones arrived, carrying a stack of textbooks and grumbling about "friggin' Weasley twins".

"Dumbledore?" she said, banishing the textbooks to a cupboard with a wave of her wand. "I just passed him, he was talking to Neville, but then he said he was in a hurry and took off in the other direction – Minerva, did you _see_ what those two red-haired terrors did to my wallpaper? Do you know how long that will take to remove?"

"Where was he going?" Sirius overrode her complaints and she caught the urgency in his voice.

"To the dungeons," Hestia answered. "To see Severus, I suppose. Come on, I'll show you where his office is."

She walked quickly with Sirius at her heels but to Harry, no longer studying their surroundings, the journey to the dungeons seemed to last hours. The lower levels of Hogwarts were chilly and murky despite the warm day. Through the door of Snape's office they could hear raised voices.

"I cannot let you leave the school yet, Severus, even to go to Diagon Alley – especially if you yourself are so adamant that there is still danger-"

"Danger from _within_, Headmaster," the oily voice of Severus Snape growled. "Did you hear a word I said about the Dementors? The way they reacted when Potter stirred and woke up? The way they honed in on him – going straight past Remus and myself without a glance!"

"I heard, Severus. But as yet you have no explanation for this behaviour…"

"By the time I do, it will be too late. And yet you tell me to sit in the corner like a dunce, defenceless, and mind my manners until we have undeniable _proof_…"

"Yes, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly. His voice had the slow roll of thunder. "Until we have proof."

Hestia cleared her throat and Sirius and Harry both jumped.

"Eavesdropping?" she mouthed, raising her eyebrows. Sirius looked guiltily at the stone ceiling while Hestia stepped forward and knocked on the door.

Snape jerked it open and his eyes narrowed fiercely as he saw Sirius and Harry. "Get out!" he snapped, and he sounded half-maddened. "I don't want to see your faces again! Get out!"

"Severus, that's no way to speak to your students," Dumbledore's voice floated through the open door and a moment later he appeared in the gap between Snape's arm and the doorframe. His blue eyes widened a little. "Ah. I see. Well, don't be so rude – invite them inside."

"We are not _finished_, Headmaster-"

"For now we are," Dumbledore replied sharply and Snape's mouth closed shut like a trap. With show of a great effort, he lowered his arm and stepped away from the door.

Harry slipped past Hestia and into the room, his eyes flicking quickly over the sickly-coloured jars that filled the shelves around the room, filled with unidentifiable creatures and body-parts suspended in noxious liquids. Sirius followed him, striding past Snape without acknowledging him. Hestia lingered outside, eyeing the seething potions master and the slimy jars.

"You should be in bed, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly. "You've been through a harrowing ordeal."

"If I needed more rest I wouldn't be here," Harry replied. "We came because…"

"…we need to know what happened that night, Dumbledore," Sirius said with a dark look at Snape. "There's more to this than I've been told and if Harry is somehow involved in this danger Snape is ranting about…"

"Eavesdropper!" Snape shot.

"…then I have to be in the know," Sirius finished loudly.

"Completely understandable, Sirius," Dumbledore said with a warning glance at Snape. "Indeed, I would tell you everything I knew, if it were not for…"

"You can't keep controlling other people's lives!" Sirius barked.

"Sirius…" Harry said quietly, shaking his Godfather's wrist, but he was brushed away.

"Don't you see how that's led to disaster in the past?" Sirius continued, his voice getting louder and louder. "Just _stop_ not _telling_ people things!"

Dumbledore raised his hands in protest. "I was merely going to say, Sirius, that I would tell you everything I knew – if it were not for the fact that I know no more than you do."

A stunned silence followed this remark. Snape gave a triumphant snort at Sirius' shocked face.

"What? But…"

"I am not omnipotent, Sirius," Dumbledore said sadly. "I have interviewed Neville, Severus, Bellatrix and as many others as I could about all they witnessed on the night of the Full Moon but it is not enough. I simply do not understand what happened in those brief, world-defining hours. I do not have the faintest clue how Harry and Neville managed to destroy the most feared sorcerer in a century and yet come out alive and apparently unharmed. If I did, I would have divulged the information to you the moment I learned of it."

"But…" the disillusionment on Sirius' face would have been amusing if it hadn't been so awful to watch.

"I'm sorry, Sirius. As soon as I have pieced together a little more of this puzzle I will inform you."

Sirius shook his head, apparently unable to phrase a question. He stared appealingly at Dumbledore. "Surely…?"

"Take Harry back to the Hospital Wing for now," Dumbledore suggested gently.

"Yes, get out of my office, Black, before you make yourself look like any more of a fool," Snape drawled.

Sirius' muddled expression tightened and his lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Be quiet!" he roared, whirling to face Snape and stabbing his wand towards the potions master's throat. Snape had been standing lazily against his desk and now he nearly fell over backwards in his keenness to avoid Sirius' trembling wand tip. Their two faces were mirrors of hatred, each reflecting the other perfectly.

"What's wrong with you?" Harry said angrily, "Get off him!" He was trying to pull Sirius' arm away, but he might as well have tried to bend a steel bar. Hestia and Dumbledore were both speaking angrily overtop of one another but Sirius didn't move an inch.

"Oh, go ahead, Black," Snape whispered in a voice like slow-dripping venom. "I'm unarmed. The Death Eaters broke my wand two days ago. Isn't that how you like your enemies in a fight?"

Sirius gave a bellow like a wounded bull and turned away. Snape straightened up, unable to keep an expression of relief from spreading across his face. Perhaps he had really thought, for a moment there, that Sirius would kill him. Harry could not believe what had taken place – he had never seen his Godfather act with such meaningless hate.

He turned back to Dumbledore. "You don't understand what happened," he said, raising his voice to make sure everyone was listening. "But I do."

Sirius' head whipped around to stare at him but Dumbledore only nodded as if he had been waiting for this all along. "Neville told as much," the old Headmaster said.

"I couldn't have done it without Neville," Harry answered. The chill of the dungeon was starting to make him shiver but the thought of explaining everything to Dumbledore made him feel like he was sick with fever. Even after all these years Dumbledore still represented the ultimate authority, tall, menacing, all-powerful – a force of pure good that made Harry cringe to think of it. He turned to look up at his Godfather, whose character had proved so different from Dumbledore in every way.

"Would you all leave? I have to speak to the Headmaster alone."

Snape displayed a sneer to the room in general but stalked towards the door, accepting the request to remove himself from his own office. Hestia Jones was leaning into the room looking as if she was watching a particularly tragic play and she got out of Snape's way in a hurry. Sirius didn't move.

"Sirius, please. I'll tell you everything, anything you want to know, but only after…"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Harry met his gaze and said, "Sirius, I'm telling you to leave now. Don't argue with me."

There was a weight in his voice that might have made even Dumbledore hesitate to defy. Sirius took a moment to look surprised and then let his feet take him back to the door of the office. He glanced over his shoulder at Harry.

"I'll be waiting out here," he said.

"You'll listen at the door. No, go with her," Harry ordered, indicating Hestia, who was hovering just outside. Snape had vanished.

An awkward silence followed this, then Hestia said timidly. "Come on, Sirius, you can come to my third-years' class. I'll say you're our guest speaker for the day or something."

Harry watched until they had disappeared down the corridor and then shut the door behind them.

----------------------------------------------

"Begin however you like, Harry."

Dumbledore had set himself against Snape's desk, his hands folded in front of him and his features conveyed a calming influence. From the strangely blackened right hand to his long crooked nose, he looked composed and serene. Harry had taken one of Snape's seats across the room, leaning forward a little when it occurred to him that the Professor's greasy black locks regularly came into contact with the back of that chair.

Harry sighed. "I need you to do two things for me. Then I'll tell you everything."

Dumbledore looked curious and gestured for him to continue.

"First, I want you to promise me, unconditionally, that when I've told you everything I can, you will let me enrol in Hogwarts and become a normal student here."

"And why would I deny you that, Harry? With Voldemort dead, you are free to seek any education you like, are you not?"

"Just promise me," Harry insisted.

"I see no reason why you could not come to Hogwarts. Obviously you will be a little behind in your studies, of course. An entire year without any magical training is not something to be taken lightly, not to mention the preceding year in which your learning was somewhat hampered by a lack of professional tutors. But I do not doubt your determination, and Miss Granger told me she believed you perfectly capable, given a little extra tutorial, of catching up with the rest of the students your age…"

"_Promise me_."

Dumbledore paused, gave a gracious nod and said, "I promise you that you have a place in this school."

"Alright," Harry said, but he did not relax. "Now tell me the truth about my parents death."

The old wizard took a moment to reply, a crease forming on his forehead. "What is it you do not understand?"

"I've heard…well, _he_ told me that you leaked out the first half of that stupid Prophecy, to _lure_ him in, hoping he'd meet his downfall when he tried to kill me or Neville," Harry said with an unfriendly expression. "I couldn't believe him. But he didn't lie to me any other time that night. If he was right, then you – _you_ orphaned Neville and I."

As Harry laid out his accusation he carefully watched Dumbledore's face for any sign of guilt or remorse, but the wrinkled brown features remained impassive.

"Well?" Harry snarled after a drawn-out silence.

"I wish I could have known you, Harry," the old man replied quietly. There was an angry tone underlying his words. "I wish you could have known me without the bias that has been instigated by your Godfather. Then you would know how foolish this claim is. Kill four innocent people, four loyal friends, four of my allies, and possibly kill their infant children as well, on the _distant_ chance that their deaths might weaken the Dark Lord?"

Harry felt bruised by the hurt in his voice. "You would have killed _me_," he said weakly.

"I gave you my reasons for that when we met a year ago," Dumbledore said coolly.

"Yes, it was out of spite! You wanted to hurt _him! _So why not use the same tactic with my parents' death?"

"Do not cast me as your villain," Dumbledore cut him off, shaking his head slowly. "I asked Sirius for your death because _I believed it was best for you_. I regret that a hundred times over and I understand that you will always hold that against me. But _bait_ Voldemort with the lives of you and your parents? No, Harry."

"Then why?" Harry croaked. "Why'd you let the Prophecy get out? Why didn't you just keep it hidden from the beginning? Then none of this would ever have happened!"

"And what? You'd be living happily with your parents? Harry, the war would still be on and Voldemort would be stronger than ever. It is _he_ who is responsible for all this hurt and misery," Dumbledore said gently. "As it stands, blows have been struck on both sides – and _he_ has come out the worse. You have done what I never could do – destroyed him."

Harry gave a bitter laugh.

"Your parents, if they were here, would be very, very proud of you, Harry," Dumbledore continued. "And I am sorry if that is cold comfort for their loss."

"Would they?" Harry said sadly. There was a long pause, then he added with a shrug, "I've got Sirius."

"If it would be any consolation, you are welcome to go to the _Daily Prophet_ and sell them the account of how Albus Dumbledore made the biggest mistake of the century," the Headmaster said with a mischievous twinkle. "He tried to kill Harry Potter. I don't doubt they would pay handsomely to cover _that_ story."

Harry gave a sad smile. "Maybe I'll take you up on that," he said. "But in the meantime. How much did Neville say to you?"

"About your captivity?" Dumbledore asked mildly. "Everything you told him. Don't take that the wrong way, Harry – he did not think you wanted it kept secret."

Harry nodded. "I suppose I didn't. So, Neville told you that I couldn't keep track of the days between the full moons – that You-Know-Who was wiping my memory every time he came to speak with me?"

"Voldemort, Harry," Dumbledore said. "You may call him by his name."

Harry shook his head. "No. I can't," without elaborating he went on. "Now what I told Neville and the others – what I _thought_ at the time – was that You-Know-Who didn't want me to remember our little chats because then he could always find out what I was up to without my trying to hide it from me. Whenever I came up with a new plan to escape, or annoy Wormtail, or anything like that, he would know. And I wouldn't have any clue that he was aware of my every move."

Dumbledore nodded to show he was following.

Harry took a breath. "I was wrong," he said, a waver running through his voice. "That was only part of it. The real reason he didn't want me to remember was because of what happened whenever I got close to him."

He paused, trying to figure out how to put it into words. His hand snuck towards his chest as if he was making some vow of loyalty, his eyes hooded under their lids. "It's like," he licked his lips. "It's like having your heart ripped out. Every time he was near me, this foul bit of his soul inside me was trying to get out, and taking _my_ soul with it. That's what it felt like. That's what he didn't want me to remember."

Dumbledore was frowning as if he was already beginning to see where things were heading. "Neville told me that one night, when he saw you in a dream, you spoke his name. I found this hard to believe. Were you really aware of him?"

"I really was," Harry said, leaning further forward in the chair. "I think that's how deep the connection ran between me and You-Know-Who. I forgot a lot that day – all I remembered was Neville. But when I met him again, on the night of the full moon," Harry made a wry face, "_then_ I remembered, because I felt that awful tearing in my heart all over again. And I forced it all down and resisted it. I suppose Neville's told you everything that happened that night?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "From his perspective."

"Do you know what that thing was, with all the light? When Neville faced You-Know-Who and their spells didn't work?"

The old Headmaster nodded. "I cannot be sure, since it did not carry through as far as it should have, but I believe it was a very rare effect called _Priori Incantatem_. Were you aware that Neville and Voldemort's wands share a core from the same Phoenix?"

Harry shook his head.

"The consequence of their duel would have resulted in one of the wands divulging all the previous spells it had performed. The effect is not well documented but witnesses claim that while the 'cage of light' that seems to envelope the two wand-bearers, no one can come between them. But Neville tells me that _you_ did."

"Well, I'm part of _him_, aren't I?" Harry said savagely. "We share a _soul!_ I realised that when it happened. We were – we _are_ – one and the same. Connected beyond separation."

"'Are'?" Dumbledore asked quizzically.

Harry looked at an ugly creature like an unborn dragon floating in one of Snape's jars. "When Neville stood up and fought him and their wands connected, I realised this was the only chance we were going to get. You-Know-Who would have given my soul to the dementors and taken my body – I suppose Neville told you that? – and then he would just keep on going for ever and ever, killing people like my parents until someone stopped him. I don't believe what that Prophecy says about there being only _one_ person who can defeat the Dark Lord, but still – once he'd killed Neville, I knew there wouldn't be anyone else who had a chance for a very long time."

Harry gave a humourless laugh. "You know he was using me to get Neville, don't you? Not just to lure Neville into his clutches – it was more than that. Once he had possession of my body, all Neville would ever see was _my_ face. That way, if he didn't manage to kill Neville before we exchanged bodies, Neville wouldn't ever be able to defeat him. Just imagine it – ten years from now, Neville is an Auror who has spent his life hunting down the Dark Lord and preparing to destroy him. At last, they meet – _but You-Know-Who looks just like Harry Potter!_ Even if Neville understood what had happened, he would hesitate too long, unable to kill the boy he remembered from his childhood dreams – giving You-Know-Who the chance to strike first."

"Merlin," Dumbledore whispered as this new piece of the puzzle fell into place. He could imagine it all too clearly. Harry was right – Neville might learn to be the greatest wizard in the world but his good-hearted nature would still hold him back from killing a friend. By providing Neville with the dreams of Harry, Voldemort had essentially neutralised his would-be nemesis in any future battle.

"I knew all this," Harry said, folding his hands in his lap. "I knew what it would mean if You-Know-Who went through with his plans. Maybe Neville would be able to defeat him while I sat on the ground and watched – but I couldn't be sure. I had to do what I did."

"And are you going to tell me what that was?" Dumbledore asked.

"I told you the piece of his soul was trying to escape mine," Harry said. "And at the same time, the rest of his soul was trying to rejoin its missing piece. Both of us had been fighting it, holding the two pieces back. Well, I just stopped fighting."

Dumbledore didn't speak for a moment. His hand went to his long white beard and he ran his fingers through it pensively. "But surely, Harry, if the two pieces of soul rejoined, yours would have gone with them, torn out of your body? You would have _lost_ your soul?"

The boy shook his head slowly. "It was the other way around. He lost his. It came into me, destroying his body as it escaped. It's in me now."

-----------------------------------------------

Dumbledore might have known, if only he had been paying proper attention to all the signs. The dementor's attraction to the child, his miraculous survival, Harry's strange hallucinations and the names he muttered during them: 'Stay away from me, Mrs Cole – Please, Professor Dippet – Potter! I'll kill you, James Potter!' – those were not names or words from _Harry's _memory. Dumbledore could have figured it out, but his mind was older than it once was. It had forgotten how to be that imaginative.

His hand tried to reach for his wand but he forced himself to stay still, holding the gaze of those piercing green eyes. There was defiance there, and suspicion, yes, but was there something else? Was there a serpent seething behind Harry's pale face? Might it not rise up without warning – _might it not already control the boy that sat before Dumbledore?_ Perhaps it was not Harry who sat there at all: perhaps it was Tom Riddle, rejuvenated, returned to the strength of youth, and ready to act out the part of Harry Potter for as long as need be. Perhaps he would return to the life he had been living up until the last full moon, or perhaps he would begin a new life – _that_ was perhaps the more terrifying option. Tom Riddle, imbued with all the knowledge and power of a lifetime, but hidden in the form of a thirteen-year-old boy, able to step back into the world and see what cards fate dealt him the second time around.

Yet still, it was Lily Potter's eyes watching Dumbledore's aged face. There was no sheen of red, no bitter, manipulative will looking out of those eyes. Just a boy who had grown up too fast and been forced make decisions that even the greatest witches and wizards of the age had never even contemplated.

So what could the Headmaster do now? He could not let this secret escape – could not let the Death Eaters who had fled get even a hint – but did he dare hide the truth from anyone else? Who else had to know? And what would they want to do about it when they did?

Severus had not guessed yet, but it would not be long. He would keep his silence if Dumbledore asked him to, but he would see only one possible course of action, and that was to kill the boy. Others might figure it out eventually. And would they not view things as bleakly as Severus Snape?

"I can see why you did not want Sirius hearing this," Dumbledore said placidly, buying himself time to think.

Harry nodded, his brows furrowing regretfully – _ah, but was that only Tom shaping those expressions? _– "I wish Sirius could never know. I mean," he gave a timid chuckle, "he can be a bit reckless, can't he? I love him more than anything but coming back after all this time has made me realise…well… it feels almost like _I'm_ the elder of the two of us. I want to protect him."

"And you're afraid of what he will think."

Harry nodded. "Will he hate me?" he whispered. "Will he try to distance himself from me, treat me like a different person? Like at any moment I might turn into a monster?"

"You must remember that this is the same man who has raised you, knowing you carried a piece of You-Know-Who's soul and yet not knowing whether that would affect who you were as a person," Dumbledore replied. "The same man who has befriended werewolves since he was a schoolboy. The same man who never once ceased his search for you during all the long months that you were missing."

Harry nodded, resting cheek on his knuckles. He glanced back at Dumbledore. "Do you believe me when I say I'm still Harry Potter?"

Not a question you could flat-out lie to. Dumbledore paused before he answered. "If I believe you, then I must believe that you are repressing the soul of Voldemort completely, preventing it from taking control of your body. Would you easily believe that, if you were in my position, Harry?" there was the faintest emphasis on the last word, as if it was a question more than anything else.

"I am!" Harry said at once, straightening up, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. "I _am_ holding it back! And it won't ever get free – it won't _ever_ get control of me – I swear!"

"Harry," Dumbledore raised his hand for silence. "How can you be so sure that Voldemort is not letting you _believe_ that you can control him? Biding his time until he can swamp your willpower and take your form?"

"Because I _know_," Harry said, gritting his teeth. "I _know_ he's there. That's why I was having those hallucinations – because he was trying get control of me – but he won't ever get out again. I know it, I know it."

He sounded so fierce and sure that Dumbledore knew he believed what he said. But that didn't mean it was true. At least Harry's strange sickness following the full moon was now explained. Another sign Dumbledore had missed.

"You won't break your promise, will you?" Harry asked faintly, sounding suddenly frightened. "You'll let me come to Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore looked away, saddened that that was all the boy was worried about. His voice heavy with reluctance as he answered, "I do not like breaking promises, even those made in ignorance. But Harry, how _can_ I let you stay here?"

"No," Harry shot to his feet. "Professor I would bargain my _life_ to prove to you that I will never be a danger to this school. And I would rather die than let _him_ control me! I've spent a year as a prisoner. I _have_ to study at Hogwarts, I _have_ to meet other wizards like me. I will _not_ go back to Grimmauld Place and be stuck in my room for the rest of my life with no one but Kreacher for company!"

And that, Dumbledore felt, was the sort of thing Harry would say and Tom Riddle would not know to say. What could he do? He had done terrible things in the past to keep Harry Potter from living life, literally and figuratively. But he had never had to face him before, look him in the eye, and say _I forbid you to live_.

_What can I do?_ Albus Dumbledore thought. _What can I do but trust him?_

"Very well," he said, softly and wearily. "Come to Hogwarts, Harry. We will see how things go from there."

And the green-eyed boy sat down and grinned with the biggest, purest smile Dumbledore had ever seen.

-----------------------------------------------------

"How did Dumbledore con me into this?" Severus Snape muttered aloud, sitting on the edge of Remus Lupin's bed as he measured into a small glass cup a few drops of a black syrup and held it out to his patient. Still grey, thin and shattered, the ex-werewolf did not look as if he had improved since the last potion, despite Poppy Pomfrey's claim to the contrary.

"You mean keeping me alive?" Lupin asked as he took the medicine cup with two shaky hands. His voice was still as faint as eiderdown.

"I mean keeping you alive," Snape confirmed, frowning at Lupin.

"How does Albus con any of us into doing anything?" Lupin replied, downing the potion quickly and making a pitifully sour face.

"What you mean is, you don't know."

"Yes, what I mean is, I don't know," Lupin smiled, handing back the medicine cup. With a show of great effort, he turned his head to look at the bed a few rows down. It was empty, but Sirius Black, Hestia Jones and Nymphadora Tonks were gathered around it in a huddle, murmuring darkly to each other. "Can you hear what they're saying?" Lupin asked.

"No doubt adding new features to their already extensive list of reasons why I'm not to be trusted," Snape said coldly, taking out another bottle and beginning to fill a clean cup with Lupin's next medication.

Lupin glumly watched his three friends until Snape pushed the next potion under his nose. "Drink."

"Thanks," he did not look very thankful as he tipped his head back and gulped it down. Snape began to carefully measure out a third remedy.

"May I ask you," Lupin said softly, his eyes smiling as he watched Tonks give Sirius a rough shove and Sirius reply with a burst of gruff laughter, "why you did save the three of us that night? No one would have blamed you if you'd fled the house at once instead of coming down to the cellar to find me. Of course, then Harry and I could have died, and Neville – well, who knows."

Snape thrust the third potion towards him. "You are an imbecile. The headmaster would never have let me back into this school if golden-boy Longbottom had fallen into the hands of the Death Eaters, or if that insufferable and yet wholly uncrushable Potter had gotten himself eaten by the dementors. And you – well, I mostly just wanted to know if you'd pull through or not. I suspected Slughorn might have made his potion fatal after a delay of a month or so as a last miserable attempt to assassinate the Dark Lord once he possessed Potter for good."

Lupin laughed. "That was a very complex way to say 'I have a heart of gold'."

"Don't be ridiculous. Drink."

Lupin drank the last potion and handed back the cup. Snape sanitized it with a wave of his wand and banished it back to his storeroom. He was just closing his bag when there was the sound of the door of the hospital wing opening and the conversation from down the rows fell silent.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Madame Pomfrey's voice cried from the other end of the wing. "Don't you _dare _leave the hospital wing again!"

"I was talking with the headmaster," Harry Potter said defensively, sidling into the room. Snape was certain he recognised that guilty swagger as a Potter trait.

"I don't care if you were being made the Minister for Magic, _don't do it again_," Madame Pomfrey fumed.

Harry managed to duck under her grasp and sat down on the end of the bed. "See? I won't leave this spot. Promise," he said soothingly. Tonks and Hestia Jones moved away a little so that they wouldn't get between the Matron and her patient.

Once Madame Pomfrey had finished her fussing, it was Sirius Black's turn. Snape tried not to give an amused snort at the sight of the _ever-so-manly_ Black yielding to his thirteen-year-old charge with impatient questions about the private conversation with Dumbledore. At this point, since he was equally interested in the contents of the private conversation, Snape started listening a little harder.

"Is something wrong? Are you still sick?" Black said in a concerned voice.

Potter shook his head.

"But you said you knew what happened! Are you going to tell me or not?"

Harry shrugged. "I just told him how it went – it was all Neville's doing, really. Dumbledore figured it out once I told things from my point of view. Something was activated called the – um, the _Priori Incantatem_ effect, and I was able to get close enough to disarm You-Know-Who so that Neville could get a clear shot. I'd gotten muddled about it because I was hit by the backwash of Neville's spell, that's all. But You-Know-Who is definitely gone for good."

Snape watched Black process this and accept it without question, but his own mind was not so hasty. The rubbish Potter had just fed his Godfather did not tally at all with what Snape had heard from Longbottom's mouth, and from what he had seen with his own eyes. Not to mention that it didn't even try to explain how Potter could have survived when the Dark Lord did not! Potter and Dumbledore must be in on the secret together, but what on earth could require that kind of secrecy? Or was Potter merely keeping quiet in front of the other listening ears in the room?

Potter lowered his voice, though not low enough that everyone else couldn't pick out his words. "Sirius, would you be angry if I told you I'm going to go to Hogwarts?"

Snape groan inwardly. He would have to _teach_ that boy? Oh, Dumbledore was _really_ going to owe him for this one.

His Godfather's eyebrows shot up, then down again so quickly they looked like a pair of yo-yos. "Oh. Of course not." he said in a slightly strained voice. Tonks and Jones glanced at each other.

"I'm sorry," Potter said awkwardly. "I'm not trying to leave you. But…"

"Merlin, Harry, I wouldn't expect anything else!" Black exclaimed, taking his Godson's hands. "No, I'm glad, I'm very glad, and if Dumbledore's not making difficulties about you starting so late…"

Potter gave a barking sort of laugh that he had obviously picked up from his Godfather.

"…then all the better. I'm sure he's not complaining about you being a werewolf. And you've got friends already, haven't you?" Black sounded miserable, as if he was desperately trying to think of all the reasons why he couldn't keep Potter from going to school and making himself more and more depressed as a result.

"I really am sorry," Potter said quietly. He meant it, Snape realised with a jolt – how _odd_ to hear a Potter who was genuinely remorseful. "I'll write every week, and visit you in all the holidays. You understand, don't you? I've never _lived_ in this world, in _our_ world, my parents' world. I have to start getting used to it."

"I understand completely," Black said with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Which was very little.

Snape decided that was enough drippy sentiment for one day and turned back to bid Lupin goodbye.

What little blood Lupin's face had contained was gone. His eyes were wide and he looked as if he was going to be sick.

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Snape snapped, whipping open his bag again while he tried to think what kind of adverse allergic reaction Lupin might have had to one of the medications, or whether it was possible he had accidentally mixed the wrong ingredient into one of the potions (unlikely though the latter was).

"No," Lupin said hoarsely, shaking his head. "No…why'd Sirius say he was a werewolf? Didn't someone tell him Harry is cured?"

"Ah. About that," Snape said, mentally cursing. It had been very satisfying informing _Black_ of the fact that Potter was still not cured, but breaking the news to Lupin was a different story. Snape told himself it was simply because Lupin was in such a fragile condition that he felt guilty about giving him the bad news.

He explained quickly. Lupin seemed to shrink and shrivel as he absorbed Snape's words.

"It isn't fair," he muttered, looking away. Snape did his very best not to roll his eyes at the back of his head. He waited for a moment while Lupin stared moodily at the far wall of the hospital wing, then closed his bag again and got to his feet.

"Wait," Lupin had turned his head back towards Snape and was looking at him as if he had only just realised he was there. "Severus – surely you met Slughorn while he was working with the Death Eaters?"

"I had not the faintest idea he was anything other than dead," Snape replied. "Otherwise I could have guessed that _you_ were alive and all of this might have been easily avoided."

"But didn't any of the Ministry workers who searched the house find what was left of Slughorn's experiments?" Lupin asked desperately.

"If they did, I don't know, as the Headmaster has not yet permitted me to leave the school," Snape drawled, turning away.

"But you worked with Slughorn!"

Snape paused and looked back at Lupin.

"You worked with him before he was kidnapped," Lupin said, trying to lever himself up onto his elbows and failing. "So you know all about his research. And you can find what's left of the work he did for the Death Eaters, and you can make another cure!"

Snape felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. He wanted to say to Lupin, _I do not have the time or the motivation to go chasing around the country just to cure some brat of the disease that _you_ inflicted on him in the first place!_ So why didn't he say it? Thinking back on it later, he never could figure out what stilled his tongue.

"Severus," Lupin said weakly, in that annoying tone that always made Snape think of kittens being drowned. "Please. Don't do this for me, or for Harry – do this for all the other lives you could change if you gave the world a cure for Lycanthropy. Please. You're probably the best Potions Master in Britain – I know you could do it."

_Oh damn you, Remus!_ Severus thought, _Damn you and your stupid drowned-kitten voice!_

"I will see," he growled, "what I can do."

Lupin collapsed back into his pillows. "Thank you," he smiled.

-----------------------------------------------------

"Celebratory Fireworks," said Ron.

"What?" asked Harry.

"That's the password," explained Hermione.

The portrait of the fat lady looked down at them and raised one brush-stroke eyebrow at Harry, looking and feeling completely out of place in one of Tonks' spare shirts and a pair of Sirius' trousers folded three times at the bottom and belted securely at the waist. Sirius had brought him an outfit from his room in Grimmauld Place but it was quickly discerned that Harry had grown several inches and, though he was thinner than anyone remembered, he had not a hope of fitting any of his old clothes.

"And who is this, my dears?" the fat lady asked.

"He's Harry," Ron grinned, puffing up his chest. "_He's_ just been sorted into Gryffindor."

"He looks a little old!" the portrait said curiously.

"It's a long story," Hermione assured her. "Could we just go in?"

"Alright, but I always find out the truth about these things in the end," she said and grudgingly swung forward to admit them.

If Harry had been in the Gryffindor common before, he would have known that it was unusually full for this late at night. Every chair was occupied and there was very little sign of schoolwork, as the tables were taken up by the remains of several cases of Butterbeer. Some older students were laughingly sharing bottles and words with a few of their younger compatriots and others were huddled with their heads together, no doubt still discussing the scant information that was filtering through the school. It was not only Gryffindor that was celebrating, but families and friends all over the country. Very few people did not have reason to celebrate.

It took a few moments before anyone noticed the three third-years enter the common room. It wasn't until one of a pair of red-haired twins stood up and called. "Hey, Ron, come have a drink…who's that with you?"

That was all it took for eyes to widen and whispers to ripple around the room. Suddenly every Gryffindor in sight had looked up or twisted around to stare. Harry caught only scraps of the words.

"…look at his face…"

"…scars…"

"…he couldn't be…?"

"Never…!"

"…maybe…"

"Neville said…"

"…but who knows?"

Hermione stepped protectively in front of Harry. Ron's ears flushed pink. "Not now, Fred," he answered his brother as casually as he could. Fred's jaw had dropped open and he jabbed his twin in the ribs. George was pouring a naïve-looking second-year girl a glass of butterbeer but he did not seemed to have noticed the glass overflowing and running down his hand.

"…Harry!" Fred hissed to George in an awe-filled voice and added, "Remember Frank Bryce?"

"Come on," Ron grabbed Harry's arm and elbowed his way through the crowd that was thickening around them. They reached the bottom of the stairwell that lead up to the boy's dormitory but Harry took a last glance over his shoulder, looking for one person in particular. He finally glimpsed him over someone's shoulder.

Neville had not gotten up to stare at the new Gryffindor. He was sitting with his knees drawn up on a huge, battered old arm chair, reading a thick volume with great concentration on his face. Harry leaned away from Ron, wanting to call out, but he didn't need to. Neville looked up and met his gaze.

The chatter of the curious students was too loud to carry out any sort of conversation over that distance. Harry beckoned with a sweep of his arm, but Neville just smiled at him, waved, and went back to his book.

Ron and Hermione hustled Harry up the stairway.

"Hang on, what about Neville?"

"You can talk to him later," Ron said. "Trust me, you don't want to get stuck in that crowd. Too many awkward questions right now."

"But he's just sitting by himself…"

"Harry, he _always_ sits by himself," Hermione said pointedly. They passed a small blonde first-year on the stairs. Harry offered the first-year a friendly smile – the first-year gave a terrified squeak and flattened himself against the wall until they were gone.

"Well, you _do_ look pretty fierce." Ron said when Harry frowned questioningly.

The three of them reached the door of the Ron's dormitory and piled inside. It was empty. Ron threw himself down on his bed and Hermione seated herself on the windowsill. Harry leaned against the post of the another bed and folded his arms.

"So you're just dropping Neville for me, are you?" he asked angrily.

"Don't be dumb," Ron rolled his eyes. "We're still friends with Neville."

"He _likes_ being by himself," Hermione added. "He's always been like that."

"Oh, yeah?" Harry snapped. He was acutely aware that Neville had gotten himself captured by Death Eaters to save someone he'd barely met and he felt that deserved a bit more gratitude.

Ron sighed and sat up. "This is a great start to your time at Hogwarts. Yelling at us already."

He realised how unfair he was being and sighed apologetically. "I'm just so nervous."

"We totally understand," Hermione said with a beaming smile. "But you better get ready. It won't take more than a day before the entire school knows you on sight as the boy who destroyed You-Know-Who. People won't bother Neville much because they know him and they won't believe he's capable of doing what did. But you," she laughed, "you're a mystery. They're going to be doubling back in the corridor just to get a proper look!"

The boy who destroyed You-Know-Who… 

_What have I done?_ Harry thought. _It's all a lie. _There was a small, square mirror hanging on the wall nearby and looking away from Hermione's joyful face he saw his reflection for the first time in over a year. It was a wild stranger looking out of the glass at him. A mane of black hair hung around the pale, drawn face of a mad-boy, the scars burning white on his cheek – only his eyes looked familiar. Lily's eyes.

_He's in there,_ a voice hissed in Harry's head. _Any moment now, those green eyes will turn red and you'll know he's in there – watching your life, waiting behind your face, ready to steal you back_. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head, but the voice continued. _What if Dumbledore's right? What if he's just letting you think he's beaten? What if he isn't really? You'll never be free of him – that rash, stupid decision you made didn't give you the freedom everyone thinks you've gained: it chained you for the rest of your life. And everyone who comes near you will be in danger._

"What have I done?" Harry whispered aloud, sliding down the bedpost to sit on the floor with his fingertips pressed to his forehead. He felt the thin lightening-scar stretched against his fingers.

Ron and Hermione had jumped to their feet and came to kneel beside him. "What is? What's wrong?" she asked.

"I can't come to Hogwarts," Harry said, gritting his teeth. "I've been so stupid. It's just too dangerous."

"There's nowhere safer in the world!" Ron snorted.

"_I'm_ too dangerous," he moaned.

He couldn't see them but he knew they were glancing quizzically at each other.

"You mean, because the Death Eaters will come looking for you?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head, letting his hands fall to his lap. "It's complicated. I was so sure Dumbledore would kick me out as soon as I explained but he hasn't. He's given me a chance to prove everything I said, but what if I'm wrong? I'm going to get someone killed!"

Hermione bit her lip and looked at Ron, her brows knotted nervously. She leaned a little closer to Harry and whispered, "Is it something to do with You-Know-Who coming back?"

Harry raised his head so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. "What do you mean?"

"Neville said," she paused, obviously trying to remember the exact wording, "he said that Dumbledore was grateful to him for delaying You-Know-Who's return for a second time. We figured that means Dumbledore believes he isn't truly gone."

"Yeah," Harry leaned his head against the bedpost. "I think Dumbledore has got the right idea there."

Ron nudged Harry with his foot. "So it's more than that?"

Harry nodded. He could not longer see his face in the mirror but he imagined getting to his feet, looking into the glass once more and finding a bald, snake-nosed reflection glowering back at him. Hermione and Ron had no idea what was waiting inside him. He might lose control one day – he might hurt one of them. Then they'd understand.

"I want to stay here," he said, folding his arms on his knees and resting his chin on them. "But Dumbledore doesn't like the idea. He's right. I was asking too much," a solid lump seemed to be stuck in his throat.

"Look," said Hermione in an exasperated tone. "Dumbledore still said yes, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"And has he ever been wrong in judging someone's character before?"

Harry would have liked to name a few times that Dumbledore had misjudged but he suspected Hermione would disagree with then, so he grunted, "Not much."

"And didn't we stick by you when we found out you were a werewolf?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

"And while you're obviously not going to _tell_ us what's so awful, we can assume it's something life-cripplingly awful, can't we?"

Harry nodded mutely.

"But we're still here?" she said with a characteristic I-know-I'm-right look on her face.

"Yeah."

Ron finished for Hermione, "So _why_ the blood _hell_, when you have two _perfectly_ good friends on your side and the assent of the best Headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen, do you _still_ think you know better than all three of them?"

They were both looking at him with the expressions on their faces of someone who cannot believe how stupid another person can be.

"You should be taking me seriously," he said, but it was all he could do not to smile.

"We _do_ take you seriously, Harry," Hermione said calmly. She and Ron got to their feet, took a hold of his arms on each side and hauled him to his feet. "But it's not as if you aren't serious enough all by yourself. You're going to need us to stop being serious once in a while."

"Come on, mate," Ron shrugged. "Everyone is Britain is going to know your name. Let's get you ready for the rest of your life."

-----------------------------------------------------

Sock drawer empty – _check_. Desk cleaned – _check_. Photos packed – _check._ Weasley mess removed from classroom – _check. _Essays left for Remus to mark – _check. _

"I guess I'm ready to go," said Hestia to herself, looking around the office of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, the office which had belonged to her right up until Lupin had been discharged from the hospital wing the day before. She summoned a stack of books from the corner and began to force them into her suitcase, some of them protesting in shrill voices that literature was to be respected and not abused in this way.

"Shut up," Hestia told the books. To herself, she grumbled, "Why are you so grumpy? You weren't made for this teaching business. Let Remus deal with the kids, he's the one who actually _likes_ the little beasts."

She shut the suitcase, went to the cupboard, realised she had forgotten to pack her good set of robes and had to go back and endure the squealing of the books again while she tried to squeeze the robes in around them. "Maybe now the war is over, someone will finally replace Moody as Minister," she said to herself as she put all her weight onto the lid of the suitcase to try and hold it closed. "Maybe once he's gone Kingsley will get me reappointed as an Auror," she added brightly as the suitcase clicked shut.

Sighing, she slid into the desk chair and stared angrily at the suitcase as if it was the cause of all her unemployment woes. There came a sharp knock on the door.

"It's open," she called.

----------------------------------------------

Sirius came in to find Hestia sitting behind her desk – _Lupin's_ desk, he corrected himself quickly – staring moodily at her bulging suitcase.

"What, did it bite you?" he asked.

She sat upright quickly. "Hello. What?"

"The suitcase. You seem a bit angry with it," she still looked rather confused so he waved away the joke and came to stand over her. "Could you tell me what books Harry needs for third year?" he asked, brandishing the piece of parchment in his hand. "I said I'd go and buy him all his school supplies but I really haven't got a clue what that entails."

"Let me have a look at what you've got so far," Hestia said, taking the list and scanning through it. She gave him a very sarcastic look. "What is this? An owl? A _broomstick?_ What's wrong with the one you've got at Grimmauld Place? He's not going to need a broomstick anyway, unless he's on the house Quidditch team!"

"Well, he _will_ be," Sirius replied confidently.

"Sirius, he needs _practical_ things – school robes. A cauldron. Ink and quills. A new _wand_," Hestia said condescendingly.

"I was going to get those," Sirius replied defensively. "_You_ write it all down, if _you're_ so clever."

Hestia gave an unintelligible grunt and began to scribble onto the list. He leaned over her shoulder, making vague suggestions of his own, such as, "Why haven't you put anything from Zonko's on there?"

Once she had finished all the basic necessities and started on the schoolbooks, they lapsed into silence but for the scratching of the quill. Sirius was just wondering why this generation had to read twice as many texts as he had when he was in third year when Hestia cleared her throat and said quietly. "Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"When Harry told you how, er, Neville defeated You-Know-Who – did you think maybe he wasn't quite telling the whole truth?"

Sirius paused, then said, "I know the story he gave us was complete nonsense. I'm not an idiot," he shot her a lop-sided grin which vanished quickly.

"And it doesn't bother you?" Hestia left off writing to look up at him.

He leaned forward and pretended to be reading the booklist while he thought about this. Finally he answered. "He'll tell me when he's ready. The only thing I don't like about the whole business is him being in league with Dumbledore, but I'll get over that."

"It's the same story Dumbledore fed the _Daily Prophet,_ and now Neville Longbottom is getting all the attention. Harry obviously had much more to do with it, don't you think? Shouldn't he get some credit?" She asked crossly.

Sirius shrugged. "He said he's getting enough attention from his fellow students as it is. Hermione and Ron are the only ones who don't turn around in class to stare at him."

"But aren't you _curious?_" Hestia pressed. "I only ask because I'm _dying_ to know what happened!"

"Then _you_ are too nosy," Sirius said, punching her shoulder. "All that I care about right now is having him back – and having him _free_. All that matters is that he's still Harry, right?"

"Right," Hestia mumbled, turning back to the list. She scribbled down the name of the charms text book Professor Flitwick taught his third years with and was chewing on the feather of the quill thoughtfully when it suddenly occurred to Sirius that now was the best time to ask her a question he'd been meaning to put to her for some time.

"Hestia," he said, sounding mildly surprised, as if he had just read it off the parchment, "how long have you been in love with me?"

She slowly wrote down the name of a history book and for a moment he thought she was ignoring him, or simply had not heard. Then she replied offhand, "Oh, since we were in school together, you know."

Sirius thought she was joking. "We weren't in school together, were we?"

"Yes we were," she said, still calm and cool as anything. "I was four years below you. I don't think you even knew my name, but after all, who _didn't_ know James Potter and Sirius Black?" she gave a soft laugh. "I wasn't the _only_ girl who lusted after you from afar, of course. But as far as I know I was the only one who decided to train as an Auror because I heard that's what you had done when you left school."

"You _what?_ You became an Auror because of _me?_"

"Yeah," she sighed. "My parents nearly went through the roof when I told them, they thought it was so dangerous and they wanted me to be a Healer at St Mungo's. I almost took their advice and quit after the first month – but then, of course, after old Flemming died and the war effort went downhill, you started tutoring the first-year Aurors and there was no stopping me."

Hestia was still scratching determinedly at the parchment without raising her head. Sirius stared at her. It had never once occurred to him, in all the years he had worked with her as an Auror, that his friendship with her had been anything other than mutually platonic. "But why didn't you _say_ anything?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Would you have believed me? We got on so well as mates working together I didn't see the point in spoiling things. Especially when we all thought we could be dead tomorrow. Although you might have taken the hint when I started dating all your friends," she added, looking up at him at last.

"Remus, Loxley Lovegood, Gideon Prewitt – I just assumed you had terrible taste in men," Sirius said truthfully.

"And after you disappeared with Harry I turned into a veritable spinster," Hestia explained, a little embarrassed. "I kept saying it was just being an Auror that kept me from getting married and popping out a few kids, but I didn't fool myself. You know, Sirius," she said appreciatively, "I used to say to myself that you were a waste of a man. You could have made any woman happy but instead you stole a baby and became a fugitive wanted by both sides of the war. How about that?"

"How about that," he echoed. For a moment or two he looked at her, with her head cocked sideways and the quill trailing carelessly out of her hand. Cautiously, tenderly, he asked, "So, am I _still_ a waste? Or would you be willing to give it a go?"

"I don't have much practise with public romance. I'm a bit of a risky undertaking," she said seriously. "Probably not worth the effort involved."

"So am I, when you think about it," he answered.

Another long minute stretched out while they just looked at each other, smiling like two children leaping off a bridge and laughing at their own foolish daring.

He pointed at the parchment under her hand. "Have you got Harry's Potions books? I'm certainly not going to ask Snape which ones the third-years need."

She scribbled down another two books, picked up the list and held it out to him. "There we go," she said. "I think that's everything."

--------------------------------------------------------

FIN.

A/N: Yeah, I might shed a couple of weeny little tears because it's all over. Thanks so much to all of you who've kept up with the endless creature that is the story of Lost: Answers to Harry. This thing started with two thousand words that never meant to go further than that and now, six months, fifty-nine chapters and over two-hundred and forty-four thousand words later, we wrap it up and say good day. There are a million things I could improve about this fic. For now, I'll just let it be.

LEAVE A REVIEW, guys. Even if you've never reviewed before, let me know you're still reading. Tell me what you liked, what you hated, at what point you first came across the series and how you wish the story had gone. Or just drop a one-liner. I don't mind – I just want to know how many of you there really are.

No, there will not be a sequel. The story beyond here is not one I feel needs telling. I have also in the past mentioned the possibility of redoing the entire series, adding in all the bits that are missing and posting it up in its revised form, either here or on a different fanfic site. I don't know if that's ever likely to happen, unless it happened early 2007. I just have too much real-life work and study this year which has to come first.

However, if you wanted to know when a revised form will be posted, keep Lost: One Godson on your ffn alert list and I will send a message to everyone on that list if I ever do clean up the whole series.

It's been a great ride. It's been exhausting. It's time to kiss Harry goodnight.

Cheers,

Tawa


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